


Ice, Blood, and Steel

by Veldari



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldari/pseuds/Veldari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the frozen wastes beyond the wall a wildling girl appears, claiming to be the lost Stark.  She brings with her stories of ancient horrors and a directive from the old gods: Make them listen, bring them North.  She's haunted by dreams of the future, of death and pain and the loss of all she holds dear, and of a dark man filled with rage.  Is he friend or foe, and what is his place on the path she must tread?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am in no way affiliated with HBO or GRRM. All the characters and story belong to them, except my OC's,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had prayed every night in the Godswood for it not to be so. The Old Gods had spoken to him through the weirwood, and told him of the child's destiny, but even so he prayed for mercy. Let me keep her, he prayed, let me be the one to keep her safe, let me teach her. But the Gods had not been merciful.

 

Prologue

 

 

 

Four men stood before the cleft, weirwood trees flanking either side. They were dressed in heavy layers of skins and furs, but still the men shivered, cold and more than a little apprehensive. Being summoned by the Children was a rare thing, and summoned with a message from the Crow rarer still. Bael, the leader of their small clan, feared he knew why they had been summoned. He waited, not patiently, for Leaf to speak to them. Finally she arrived, appearing as if from no where through the cleft. Her leafy cloak billowed around her though the air was still, and her green-and-gold cats eyes shone brightly despite the hiding sun. She looked like a child, but the men knew her to be older than any of them, and far wiser.

Silence hung in the air like hoarfrost, and Bael could stand the apprehension no longer. “You've a message for us from the Crow.” It was not a question.

Leaf inclined her head. “That I do. The child of prophecy has been born, the child that will lead to our salvation. You must bring her here, so that she can be protected, and properly trained.”

Bael barked a humorless laugh. “How are we to protect 'er, when the raiders come every six moons? We can nae even protect ourselves.”

Leaf smiled, answering in her soft sweet voice. “She will have the protection of the Gods, here where their power is the strongest. She will learn from us, all of us. The trees will speak to her, and she to them. She will be our envoy to those beyond the wall, those with the power to stop this Long Night. You need not worry for her safety here, but every day we wait to take her, her life is in peril.”

“Aye,” Bael said, “but how are we to get to her beyond the wall, and how will we get her back? I'll nae be climbin' back o'er with a babe in me arms.”

Leaf smiled, a knowing smile that seemed queer on her childlike face. “You need not cross the wall.” she answered, inclining her head, “The child's father will bring her to you. Wait at the Nightfort, at the black door. He will come to you there.”

“But how will he open it?” asked Fenn, a tall boy of six and ten. “Only those what wear the black can get get through the Black Door.”

“True, and also those whose blood sealed the spells. He will get through, and he will deliver the child to you.”

Bael furrowed his brow. “Why would this kneeler give us his own sweet babe?”, he asked thoughtfully.

Leaf's face turned sorrowful at the question. “He does not wish it, but he knows he must. The trees have spoken to him, and the wishes of the Gods made plain. He must sacrifice the child for her own good, and for the good of all. He will bring the child, make no mistake.”

Bael nodded. He knew this day was coming; the Crow had long ago told him this duty would fall to him, and also the raising of the child. He felt unworthy of such a task, and feared that the Gods would be disappointed in their choice of foster for such an important child. Nevertheless, the task had fallen to him, and he knew he must obey.

“Aye,” he said at last, “Give us the night to prepare, and we'll leave at first light. How will the child's father know to meet us?”

“He will know.” Leaf said, “The trees will speak.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Walking softly to the nursery, Lord Stark stifled the sobs that threatened to take him for what he was about to do. His little snowbird, his winter rose, how could he give her away? How could he do that to her mother, to her brothers and sister? How could he do it to himself?

He had known she was special from the moment he first held her; her steel gray gaze enchanted him at first sight. She never cried, not even a whimper, but looked at everyone and everything as though memorizing each line and curve. Her spirit shone through those metal eyes, and it was old, so very much older than him. His heart ached in his chest for the child he was to lose, yet he knew it must be done.

He had prayed every night in the Godswood for it not to be so. The Old Gods had spoken to him through the weirwood, and told him of the child's destiny, but even so he prayed for mercy. _Let me keep her_ , he prayed, _let me be the one to keep her safe, let me teach her._ But the Gods had not been merciful.

He crept silently to the crib, not wanting to wake the child, but he need not have bothered. She was lying awake as though waiting for him to arrive. Her eyes followed him as he bent to lift her and she cooed softly when he held her in his arms. He kissed her lightly as a single tear rolled down his face and onto hers. “Sweet little snowbird,” he whispered, “we're going on a trip, you and I. A long trip to a place where you'll be safe.”

Quickly he made his way to the barn before he was seen. His horse was already saddled and provisioned, a good supply of goats milk set aside for the babe, but the wall was a hundred leagues away, and the trip would be long an hard. He had told his lady wife that he was leaving on a tour of the banner-men, and that he would be gone by dawn. They had said their goodbyes earlier that night, and even as she gave her love to him, he felt guilty knowing what he must do. She would wake tomorrow to find her babe gone. She would never suspect he had taken her, the thought would never cross her mind. Instead she would believe some intruder had sneaked into Winterfell unseen and stolen the babe in her sleep. He prayed that no innocent soul would be accused of the crime, and left the rest in the hands of the Gods.

Making a sling of rough spun woolen cloth, he placed the babe inside and mounted his horse. With one last look back at Winterfell, he rode through the gates to deliver the child to her destiny.

More than a fortnight later he arrived at the Nightfort, knowing his time with his child was nearing its end. He dismounted his courser and led her to what remained of the stables in the ruined old stronghold. He hobbled her and threw down fresh hay, before patting her gently on the flank and turning away. He found the well easily enough, descending the steep staircase into the bowels of the castle. Though he had never been to the Nightfort before, though he had never seen the Black Door, he knew the way as though he had been born here.

When he reached the weirwood door he placed a hand upon it and a face appeared. The large unnatural eyes looked deeply into his, and the mouth began to speak. “You are no Black Brother. You do not belong here.” it said simply.

“I am not of the Nights Watch, it's true,” he answered, “I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I carry the blood of the First Men.”

“Then let me taste this blood for myself,” the door replied, “and you may pass.” Stark unsheathed the dagger at his hip and drew it across the palm of his left hand. He cleaned the blade of the dagger on the leg of his breeches, and re-sheathed it. Lifting his bleeding hand he placed it carefully back upon the weirwood door.

The tree seemed to smile. “Ah, the blood of the First Men indeed. You may pass, Lord Stark.” With that the mouth began to stretch, wider and wider until it was wide enough for him to step through. On the other side were the men he had been sent to find, the men who would take his baby daughter away from him. He approached them warily. “You are the men sent by the Crow?” he asked.

“Aye,” answered the oldest of the men, “my name is Bael, the leader of my clan. The Crow's tasked me with deliverin' the child to him, and to be her father beyond-the-wall. “ _Father beyond-the-wall, this man will raise her._

Stark closed the distance between them, so that he may look this man in the eye. “This is my daughter, Serra,” he said, “my most precious child. It's a hard thing I do. Promise me that you will love her as your own.”

The other man looked down at the girl child and smiled. His heart, so full of fear and doubt, became lighter at the sight of her. She was a beautiful babe, with dark hair and intense eyes. Bael recognized the strength in them that her father couldn't; fierce, she was, as fierce as the direwolf that was her family crest. Suddenly he knew why she had to come to them. Ferocity in a woman was not looked upon kindly by the kneelers, they would either break her spirit or cast her out. With the Free Folk she would learn to use that fire, and if what the Crow had said of her destiny was true, she would need it. He looked up at the child's father, understanding the pain he must be feeling. “I'll do just that, and more Lord Stark. She'll be my child in all but blood, you can believe that, and no harm will come to her while I draw breath.”

Stark gazed at the man before him a moment longer, seeing the truth of it in his eyes, then he turned his attention to the child in his arms. “Be strong, my little snowbird,” he whispered, “be strong and brave and true. Know always that your father loved you enough to let you go.” He kissed her gently, on the top of her head, her forehead, each cheek. Then, as if to keep himself from changing his mind, he removed the sling from around his neck and handed the babe to her new father. Without another word or even a look back he turned and strode back through the black door, and the portal closed behind him.

Bael watched Stark walk away, some part of his heart aching for the other man's loss, while another rejoiced at the treasure he had been given. The wind began to pick up, and a light snow began to fall, but when he looked down at the child she seemed content, as though she hardly noticed the cold. “It's time we moved out,” he said, looking up at his men. “It'll be a long journey home.” As the cold wind began to howl and snow fell in earnest, the small group of men turned from the imposing wall and began the long trek back through the Haunted Forrest.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The smoke coming from the huts was their first sign of the village; they were almost home and each man breathed a sigh of relief. The Gods had kept them safe, as promised, and they had seen neither wight nor Other, no rival clansmen, nor even a wolf during their long trek. The first light of dawn was showing to the east, and the people of the village were beginning to stir. One of them noticed the men coming through the snow, then another, then another, until the whole village was rushing to meet them.

Pushing her way through the crowd, Bael's wife Mara ran into his arms, kissing him tenderly. Only after she had had her fill of him did she look down at the babe in his arms. A smile broke on her face as she gazed lovingly at the child and then back to her husband. “She's beautiful,” Mara said, eyes shining. Bael had tried to give his wife the children she desired, but his seed had never taken root. Now he saw in her the longing she had tried so long to hide from him. He lifted the child from the sling and handed her over into his wife's arms. “Your daughter.” he whispered in her ear, and kissed her gently on the cheek.

Mara began crying in earnest now. “My daughter.” she repeated, never taking her eyes off the dark haired child in her arms, “My own sweet daughter. You must be freezing little one, let us go inside.”

Bael smiled, following his wife into their humble hut. “Have you found a wet nurse for the babe?” he inquired, pulling off his thick gloves and kicking off his boots. The fire in the hearth felt like heaven to his cold bones.

“Lera had her babe a fortnight ago. She has agreed to nurse this little one as well.” Bael was happy to hear it. “Good, good.” he said, “Lera's a strong woman, her milk will be good for the bairn. And what of the pup?”

“A fine litter was born while you were gone. As you commanded I've chosen the largest and strongest of the litter. They will grow together, and he will never leave her side.”

Bael nodded. “As it should be. She'll need a companion, she will, someone who can share her burden. I fear that though we may love her, we mightn't ever understand her, or the things she will face. I ne'er wish for her to feel alone.”  



	2. The Wildling Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am a sheild-maiden of the Karnoc clan, daughter of Bael and Mara. I am a warrior of the free people. I am not this Stark, this kneeler they say I am. But the words were a lie, and had died in her throat, no matter how defiant she wished to be. The gods would not be kind, they would not give her a gentle path. She must go and do as they commanded. In a way, she supposed, she would still be protecting her village, all the villages if the Crow spoke true. She couldn't shirk a duty like that, no matter how much she may have wanted t

The Wildling Girl

 

 

She sat quietly beneath the weirwood tree, her eyes closed in meditation as she had been taught. She was reaching out through the roots of the tree, spreading her mind throughout the network of pathways beneath the solid ground that led her conscienceless to far off distant places, to past, present and future. Her vision through the trees was not as strong as the Crow's of course, for he was connected not just by the mind but body and soul to the trees that whispered the secrets of the old gods. Still, she had some mastery of the skill, though her green dreams were much stronger.

She was unsure what she had been searching for, but she had not found it this day, nor any day prior. She sighed. Slowly she drew back into her self, and thought of the dreams she had had for the past six moons. Fire, blood, cries of the dying...these things held no fear for her, for she had seen them often enough already in her life. The Crow said the old gods protected her, and perhaps they did, but they had never shielded her from the horrors of the world. Not that she would want them to.

There was something freeing in battle, a primal part of her that she could release nowhere else. She was strong in sword as well as bow, but even these abilities were eclipsed by the havoc she wrought with her mind, with the animals of the forests, with the birds of the sky. Many men feared wargs, but none had met one trained by the gods themselves, and hers had become a name whispered among rival clans, a name to feared.

For that she was most grateful, for the raids against her village had all but stopped. _Will they continue to fear me even when I'm gone?_ She didn't want to think about it, and she didn't want to go. She didn't care what the Crow said, this was her home, these people were her family. They had kept her safe, taught her how to keep herself safe, and she would be content to stay here and keep them safe now.

She had begged, pleaded with the Crow and with the old gods to let her stay, to give her burdon to someone else. But this is what she had been trained for, what she had been destined to do. She had seen her future herself in the green dreams. Seeing it made the truth no sweeter, and she gritted her teeth to fight back the tears that threatened.

She was six and ten, now, a woman grown and the time to leave had come. The Crow had said as much this morning. They spoke through the trees; she had only actually seen him once, in the bowels of the cave where he resided. Brynden, he named himself, but to her he was only the Crow; teacher, mentor, friend.

She felt the presence beside her, and without opening her eyes she smiled sadly. “Come to see me off, Leaf?”

“Come to give you my blessings,” came the reply, “and a gift for your journey.”

Finally the young woman opened her eyes and stood, her thick mammoth hide cloak billowing around her and her dark hair whipping in the wind. She smiled at Leaf and bowed to her slightly. The Children were the emissaries of the gods themselves, and though she counted Leaf a dear friend, she still accorded her with the respect she deserved.

Leaf took her by the hand, her nut brown skin and green leafy mantle in stark contrast to the snow around her. She smiled at her ward, and spoke softly. “I shall miss you, little snowbird.” Leaf told her. Leaf was the only one who called her thus, though her father had told her the man who sired her had used the endearment. “Your presence here has been a welcome diversion to my long existence.”

 _How long an existence, you never told me._ “Will we never see each other again, Leaf? Is this our final parting?”

Leaf tilted her head, as if listening to a faint whisper. “The gods have not yet decided how our story will end.” she said finally. “Let us leave it in their hands.” A staff leaned against the heart tree they sheltered under, bone white as the weirwood it was made from, a face carved into the shaft, and decorated with carvings of weirwood leaves turned the red of their true color by the leaking of the sap inside the wood. Leaf lifted the staff and held it before her. “A gift for you,” she said, “so that no matter where your path takes you, the gods will always be by your side.”

“A fine gift,” she said, hefting the staff appreciatively. It was truly beautiful, and she could feel the power of the old gods within. When she looked back up Leaf was smiling sadly.

“Go, child.” she said. “Go and say your goodbyes.” With those parting words the Child turned and disappeared into the cleft from which she had come. The young girl turned to make her way back to the village, her heart heavy. “All women leave their village at some point,” her mother had told her, trying to console her. _Aye, but they don't go so far, or carry so much when they do._

 _I am a sheild-maiden of the Karnoc clan, daughter of Bael and Mara. I am a warrior of the free people. I am not this Stark, this kneeler they say I am._ But the words were a lie, and had died in her throat, no matter how defiant she wished to be. The gods would not be kind, they would not give her a gentle path. She must go and do as they commanded. In a way, she supposed, she would still be protecting her village, all the villages if the Crow spoke true. She couldn't shirk a duty like that, no matter how much she may have wanted to.

As she walked slowly through the fresh snow, her mind went back to the instructions the Crow had given her. “Head south, to the wall. Make for Castle Black. Don't fear the Night's Watch, there will be one there who will know you for a Stark. Once you have rested, travel to Winterfell, to your family. That is where your journey will truly begin.” _I am with my family here_ , she had wanted to say, but knew better than to say as much to the Crow. He could hear her thoughts well enough anyway, no sense wasting her breath to speak them aloud.

Her arrival at the village was greeted by the familiar barking of Garick, her faithful old dog. He was of an age with her, given to her by her father when she was still a babe in arms. They had grown together, played together, fought together. She had never warged into Garick, there had never been a need. He knew her moods as well as she knew them herself, and dealt with her accordingly, without any prompting from her mind. He was her dearest friend and most faithful companion, and just now he was wagging his shaggy tail and rubbing his large furry head against her hand. _Pet me_ , he silently begged, _pet me mistress_.

And pet him she did, getting on her knees so that he could lick her face and she could wrap her arms around him, pretending she was a small girl once again, pretending she didn't have to leave. She was relieved that she wouldn't have to leave him behind, at least. She would have one friendly face with her on her long journey south. He was old, true, but strong yet. He would see her to Castle Black safely she knew.

When she looked up her mother and father were there. Both had tears in their eyes as her mother reached out and clutched her close. “My girl,” she whispered, “My sweet, sweet girl.” She snorted, she knew she had ceased to be sweet long, long ago.

“Mother.” she said, searching for more, but the words would not come. She merely held the older woman in her strong arms. Her father joined the embrace, and they stood together in this way over long, none of them wanting to be the first to let go.

Finally it was she who pulled away, lifting the heavy sack of provisions upon her back. She kissed her parents on the cheek, the only parents she had ever known, and turned away. _Don't look back, if you look back you'll never go_. And so she didn't. “Come, Garick.” she said, but needn't have bothered as the shaggy old dog was already running to her side. One foot in front of the other she began her long journey; to the Wall, to the Night's Watch, to her destiny.

As she walked, she thought more on her dreams, the images that flashed too quickly to make sense of yet. Mostly she remembered the fire, bright and hot and malevolent. A figure took shape from the fire, the one image that remained constant throughout the dreams. A dark figure emerging from the fire, his aura one of blood and steel. She didn't yet know if he was an enemy or ally, she only knew that he would be important. She would have to trust to the Gods to show her the rest when the time came.

 

* * *

 

 

 

She was cold, colder than she had ever been, even though the weather at the Wall was milder than she had ever known. Perhaps it had been the long nights sleeping on the frozen ground, with nothing but a small fire, her mutt, and precious few furs and pelts to keep her warm. Perhaps it was bit a fear seeping into the bones, making them cold. Perhaps it was both. She only knew that the sooner these black kneelers let her in and near a fire, the happier she would be. Beside her, Garick shivered. _Aye, you'll be glad for a warm hearth too, won't you boy._ The trip had been hard on the old dog, and she knew his time with her was nearing its end. _I won't think about it._ She didn't want to be alone.

“Wildlings!” she heard someone call, as the deep bellow of a horn sounded from somewhere on the other side of the monstrosity the kneelers had built. “Wildlings at the gates!” The horn sounded again, and she shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun as she looked up as far as she could see. Seven hundred feet above, tiny black dots scurried back and forth across the top of the great white expanse. She new there arrows trained on her, dozens most like. Still she held herself perfectly still and unafraid. _The gods protect me, I am in no danger here._

Patiently she waited at the great iron gate that barred the way into the tunnel entrance. She knew they would come, and when she heard the commotion behind the wooden doors she was not disappointed. She heard the heavy wooden bars being lifted from the door, and the great hinges creaking as they opened. On the other side she counted no less than a dozen black clad brothers, swords raised and ready to shed blood. Upon seeing her standing there, unflinching, and naught but a mangy old mutt beside her they slowly lowered their weapons and looked around. One of them, a grizzled old warrior with a yellow beard and one fewer eyes than most, began to laugh. “Wildlings? There are no Wildlings here, just a dog and a wench.”

She gritted her teeth against the slur, gray eyes steely with anger. As a result her words game out in more of a growl than she had intended. “I am no wench.” she said. “I am a Stark of Winterfell.” The words tasted strange in her mouth, like an exotic fruit sampled long ago, its flavor forgotten. Still, it got their attention, as the old Crow said it would.

“A Stark, you say?” the one eyed crow asked and spat at her feet. “You're coming from the wrong direction to be a Stark.” The men around her laughed, but she only smiled. Speaking as the Crow had taught her, she answered him.

“That may be, but a Stark I am. I wish to speak to your Lord Commander.” A commotion from the back of the assembled crows interrupted her.

“What's going on back there?” she heard someone shout.

One of the others spoke up, speaking over his shoulder at the latecomer making his way through the ranks. “This one claims to be your kin, Benjen.”

The crow called Benjen snorted and screwed his face in confusion. “My kin?” he asked, but as he turned to look at her his words caught in his throat, and his face went slack. He gazed at her, her long dark tresses near hidden by the heavy furs on her back, her steel eyes glaring back at him from beneath her hood.

“Lyanna?” he whispered, shaking his head because he knew it couldn't be.

She tilted her head, taking in the young man's features, so like her own. “I'm sorry,” she said, not unkindly, “I don't know who Lyanna is. My name is Serra. Serra Stark.” Again, the words tasted strange in her mouth, sliding from between her lips as though a living thing.

The look of confusion was back on the young man's features. “Serra?” he asked. “But...that can't be. Serra was stolen these six and ten years ago.”

“Not stolen.” she corrected. “Given. Given to the Free Folk by my father.”

Benjen Stark shook his head more vigorously this time. “No.” he said. “Our father would never have done such a thing!”

The men around them began to mill about, as if they suddenly realized they were being witness to a private conversation. Most, realizing there was no immediate threat, turned and made their way back through the tunnel.

The wildling girl watched them leave, then turned her face back toward the First Ranger. “Our father?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

The crow swallowed harshly. “Aye,” he nodded. “If you are who you say you are, then I'm your brother.” His next movements were so sudden she jumped back, her hand reaching for the hilt of her sword. Benjen stark unlocked the iron gate over some mild protest by the few crows remaining. He threw the gates open and pulled his wildling sister into a tight hug.

She was taken aback, never expecting such a greeting from the stranger. This kneeler. She was tall for a woman, but he was a scant few inches taller. She looked up at his grey eyes, so like her own, and saw that they were shimmering. “Where have you been, dearest sister.” he whispered. “Where have you been?”

She pulled away from the awkward embrace. “Take me somewhere warm, brother, and I'll tell you.”


	3. Serra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serra's hand clenched at the hilt of her sword, knuckles turning white. Give me a reason. Please, give me a reason to cut you down. Then she turned back to Benjen who appeared ready to jump between them at any moment. “I told you that one was craven.” she said, though in truth she had never told him any such thing. “He only fights with green boys and old men, he's too afraid to face a true wildling.”

Serra

 

 

 

It seemed every member of the Nights Watch had wanted to crowd into the Lord Commander's chambers, curious about the First Ranger's supposed wildling sister. It was only after strenuous coaxing, cajoling, and finally threatening that the door finally closed on the assembled throng. Now the room's sole occupants were four humans and one big dog.

Benjen offered Serra a chair, but she declined, preferring to sit on the large fur in front of the hearth with Garick's large body wrapped around her knees, his big shaggy head in her lap. He sighed contentedly and she stroked his long dark fur as her bones warmed by the fire, momentarily forgetting the black clad men that surrounded her. Benjen cleared his throat and she shook away her reverie to look up at him. She smiled softly, amazed at the look of wonder in his eyes. She had known she would be returning to the family she had been born to, and while she had certainly been curious about them, she hadn't realized the depth of emotion seeing her own kin would bring. Her own eyes, her own face, looking out from another; it was more than she had expected. It was all she could do to keep those emotions carefully schooled and buried. Then, to see them reflected in her brother's eyes...it was almost too much.

She averted her gaze momentarily to compose herself, and then looked back at the man who was her brother. “I suppose you want answers.” she said simply.

He pulled his chair closer, reached out as if to touch her and then pulled his hand away. It was as if he feared the contact would cause her to dissolve, as though he doubted her reality. “If it's not too much trouble.” he finally said.

She looked up at the others in the room. There was a large man with the strong demeanor of a battle hardened warrior, who had introduced himself as Lord Commander Mormont. His eyes were wary, as though he wanted to believe her for the sake of his man, but at the same time searching for any sign that she played them false. She liked him right away. The other gave her no look at all, at least not with his white, unseeing eyes, but somehow she could feel him burrowing into her soul. Maester Aemon, he called himself. She knew from her studies that Maesters were wise and learned men, and he certainly had the look of one. She had learned about the chains they wore, how they were forged during their learning and each type of knowledge brought a different type of metal to the chain. Most Maesters, she knew, had tight chains around their neck, but Aemon's was loose, bespeaking many links, and a great deal of knowledge. He also had a kindly aspect to him, not unlike her dear father Bael. She nodded, feeling that she could speak freely in front of these men.

“Brother,” she said finally, “Do you keep to the old gods?”

Benjen looked at her curiously, then inclined his head. “Of course sister.” he answered. “All Starks do.”

She nodded. “But do you believe, brother. Do you truly believe and listen? Do you simply pray at the Godswood, or do you listen for the answers? Our father did. He heard the voice of the gods, and he obeyed them. That's why he gave me over to the Free Folk.” Benjen shook his head slowly and Serra knew he didn't understand. She sighed. “Let me explain.”

And so she did. For the next hour she told the men assembled what she knew of the command her father had been given, of his secret mission to fulfill the will of the gods, of her upbringing among the Free Folk, and of what she knew of her destiny. There were things she omitted, of course, things they wouldn't believe, and things they didn't need to know, but for the most part she was honest and forthcoming and they listened without judgment, only interrupting her occasionally to ask questions. She ended her tale with her trip south to the wall, and the rest they knew. When she was done, all were quiet for a few long moments.

“That's quite a tale.” Lord Commander Mormont said finally, when no one else spoke. “What do you make of it Aemon?”

The old Maester was silent a moment longer, his unseeing eyes open to the blackness around them. When finally he spoke his voice was almost a whisper. “What is it you Starks say, Benjen, winter is coming? Before I came to the wall I had very little use for gods, old or new. But having been here for so many years.....I have seen things, heard things that other men have forgotten. Are the old gods real? Perhaps they are at that, and perhaps they did speak to your Lord Father. The Starks are correct, winter is coming, a winter such as we have not seen since ages past. I feel this to be true, and I believe the girl's tale.”

Lord Mormont seemed to consider this a moment. “Then what should we do with her?” he asked.

“If she speaks truly then she must be sent on her way to Winterfell, as she was instructed.” the old Maester replied.

“And if she doesn't?”

“Then she is but one girl, what harm can she do?” With that he stood, making his way toward the door. “I wish you good luck, child. I believe you have a hard road ahead of you, and I pray your old gods keep you safe.”

“Thank you, Maester.” Serra answered him. As he opened the door no one heard his final words. “Indeed, I pray they keep us all safe.”

* * *

 

Serra spent several days on the wall, resting from her long journey and getting to know her brother. She found him to be pleasant, even funny, for all that he was a kneeler, and certainly brave and honorable. To her astonishment she found that she was proud to call him brother.

The men here were certainly not used to having a woman around, a fact that she knew made the Lord Commander and her brother quite nervous at first. But when they discovered she was quite capable of shutting down the leers and bawdy talk of the men around her, they seemed to relax.

Her weapons had been taken from her when she first arrived, but on the third day the Lord Commander decided she could be trusted enough to have them back. Benjen approached her as she was leaving the quarters she had been given for the duration of her stay. “The Lord Commander says I may give you back your weapons.” he told her.

She laughed. “Not expecting me to gut him in his sleep anymore, eh?” She gratefully took her sword belt and strapped it around her waist, feeling fully clothed for the first time in days.

Benjen laughed as well. “I'm not sure if you could manage it with that terrible sword.” he answered her. She narrowed her eyes and unsheathed the sword quick as a flash, pressing the blade against her brother's throat. “I've killed many a man with this blade, brother. It may not be Valeryan steel, but in the right hands its no less deadly.” With that she pulled the sword away and re sheathed it.

“Care to put that to the test?” he asked her, eyes glinting with mirth. Clearly, he had not been cowed by her show of aggression. How could it be he was getting to know her so well already? She wasn't sure if she was pleased by that or annoyed.

“What have you in mind, brother?”

“Come with me to the training ground, let's see if you can take a ranger of the Night's Watch.” he said smirking. Then he turned toward the training ground, where already there were young men slashing at each other with blunted swords.

“Clear these men out, Ser Alistair, my sister and I wish to spar.” Benjen shouted.

Ser Alistair Thorne pushed his way through the newest recruits and spat on the ground at Serra's feet. She had already met the man, and already wanted to bury her blade in his smug face. She had known men like this before, and she had killed them. For her brother's sake she suffered the pig, though for the life of her she didn't understand why the Lord Commander allowed him to train his new recruits.

“Sparring with your _sister_ , eh Lord Stark?" said the odious master at arms. “Have you gone soft, now, that you have to resort to training with women?”

Benjen made to speak, but Serra stepped in front of him, inches away from Ser Alistair's face. “Perhaps I'd rather spar with you.” she said, leaning slightly into his space with teeth bared in a quiet growl.

Ser Alistair laughed. “She certainly has the look of a direwolf, Stark.” he grunted. “But I'll not fight with a wench. I wouldn't want to hurt such a pretty thing.” His eyes cast down and back up, leering over her body, clearly imagining what she looked like with no clothes.

Serra's hand clenched at the hilt of her sword, knuckles turning white. _Give me a reason. Please, give me a reason to cut you down._ Then she turned back to Benjen who appeared ready to jump between them at any moment. “I told you that one was craven.” she said, though in truth she had never told him any such thing. “He only fights with green boys and old men, he's too afraid to face a true wildling.”

“Craven?” Ser Alistair shouted. “I'll show you craven!” She heard his sword come loose of its sheath, and loosed her own weapon. Without turning back to face him she blocked the attack that she knew was coming behind her back. Pivoting, she jumped out of the way of another blow, using his forward momentum to throw him off balance. As much as she wanted to kill him, and as easy as it would be, she resigned herself to playing with the fool. Using the flat of her blade she struck him in the back of the head while he fought to regain his footing. He wobbled dazedly while the recruits cheered. She noted with a smile that it was her name they were chanting.

She circled him as a wolf circles its prey, allowing him to get his senses back. She was toying with him, and she could tell he knew it. His face clenched in rage as he raised his long sword and came at her with another brutal attack. Again she side stepped him easily, parrying the blow and bringing the flat of her blade to his kneecap. He stumbled, bellowing in pain, but kept his feet. _Not quite as useless as I thought_. She stepped back again, awaiting his next move. He flourished his sword, no doubt planning and attempting to find a weakness. It was no use, for she had already found his: pride. Finally, he lunged again. At the last second he ducked below her sword arm and brought his blade upwards, a grim smile on his face. _That's cute, he thinks he has me._

Suddenly Serra jumped, leaping over his sword and turning so that she landed behind him. As he stood in confusion she grabbed his mop of sandy hair and yanked, putting her sword edge to his throat. The cheers of the men went quiet, and stillness settled over the keep. She idly wondered what they would do if she removed his worthless head.  Would they still cheer her on?  From the corner of her eye she saw the Lord Commander standing just outside his quarters, watching the scene curiously.

Serra badly wanted to draw the sword across his neck, to feel his lifeblood spill upon her blade and her hands, but she restrained herself. “Do you yield, you craven pile of mammoth dung?” she whispered in his ear. He growled, and she pulled the blade tighter against his flesh. She smelled the familiar tang of copper as tiny droplets of blood sprang along the edge of her sword.

“I yield!” he finally shouted, and she dropped her blade to her side. The yard erupted in cheers, not just from the recruits but from all of the crows who had stopped to watch the action unfold. Several of the younger men ran and lifted her up, carrying her over their shoulders chanting “Serra! Serra!” Then Garick joined in the chant “Woof! Woof” he called. She laughed and held her sword aloft, eliciting another round of cheers. She watched Ser Alistair throw his sword in the dirt and stomp away, and laughed even harder.

At last the men set her down in front of the dining hall, and Lord Commander Mormont approached her. “I hope you're happy.” he said with a slight smile. “These men have lost all respect for Ser Alistair.”

Serra laughed, putting her arm through the Lord Commander's and led him toward the hall. “Did you hear who they were cheering for? He never had their respect in the first place. Come, have a drink with me.”

The Lord Commander shook his head and sighed. Then he placed his had over hers and escorted her into the hall as though she were a grand lady. As they sat at the table, Benjen pushing his way to sit at her other side, Mormont leaned in to whisper “Well fought, by the way.”

* * *

 

The days went by quickly after that. Alistair Thorne kept to his chambers and Serra found herself sparring with recruits and blooded brothers alike. She bested them all, even Benjen, but didn't humiliate them the way she had Thorne. She gave them instruction where she could, and was proud to see improvement in most of them.

In the evenings she ate and drank with the men, getting to know them and enjoying their company. No longer did they leer at her as some had done in the first days, but treated her with the same respect they showed their brothers. It was a pleasant time, but she knew it couldn't last. At sunrise on the eighth day she knocked gently on the Old Bear's door.

“I must leave on the morrow.” she said simply.

“I knew it would be soon.” the Lord Commander said. “The Wall is no place for a woman; still, I hate to see you go. You're as fierce a warrior as any here, you would be an asset to the black.”

Serra smiled. “You've shown me a kindness I didn't expect to find here, my lord.” she told him. “I almost hate to leave.”

The Old Bear pulled her in for a hug, surprising even himself. “If I had had a daughter, I pray she would have been like you.” he said, kissing her temple. He made to let her go, but she pulled him in tighter. “I fear I'll never see you again.” she whispered. “Let me hold on to this moment.” He held her tightly then, and when they finally parted they both had tears in their eyes. Without another word she turned away. _Will my life be full of partings?_

The rest of the day was spent making preparations for her departure. Mormont had given Benjen leave to accompany her to Winterfell, and a raven was sent let them know he would be coming, though no mention was made of her. A garron was loaded with supplies for the journey, and she had been loaned a fine bay courser. “I wish I could make a gift of it.” the Old Bear had told her, “But we have too few horses as it is.”

The next morning she and Benjen rose before dawn to set out on their journey. Even so, a large company of brothers came to see them off, and to wish her well. She felt a swelling of sadness in her chest, knowing that many of them would die before she saw the wall again. She waved a solemn goodbye, and spurred the courser on down the Kingsroad toward Winterfell, and her destiny.

 


	4. Serra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why don't you give her a try, Father?" he asked. Rodric pulled at his large white whiskers and shook his head. "I have my pride, boy", his father answered. "I'll not have my sword handed to me by a bloody woman!"

Serra

_She was standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, watching silently as the menagerie made its way through the ancient stone gates. Through the green mist came a herd of stags, the largest leading the rest. He pranced roughly and threw his great head about, his large piked antlers glistening in the waning sunlight. Others followed behind him, but none so sleek and proud as their leader._

_Behind them, a pride of lions came into view, led by an immense golden male with a mane of white stained with blood. Beautiful to behold, he roared as he passed her, his voice reaching all across the great towers and keeps of Winterfell. Beside him walked a lioness, her fleece the color of sunshine through honey, and eyes like emeralds set in gold. Together they made a beautiful and terrible sight. They were followed by three cubs, heads held high and gilded manes shining. Though they made a lovely spectacle, she felt a tightening at the pit of her stomach. Winter was coming, she knew, and the sight before her was its harbinger._

_As the procession reached its end, the sunlight dimmed, and storm clouds came into view. An enormous black cur strode beneath the gathering darkness, the kind of animal that was often found in gaming pits, biting and snarling against its own kind until blood flowed and the opponent lay lifeless on the ground. Indeed, the smell of blood preceded him, as did a sound like the clanging and clashing of steel on steel. Scars covered his sleek black fur, the largest covering half his head and muzzle, the ear on that side chewed away. He glanced around with eyes the color of the clouds above him, filled with anger and hate. He was rage made flesh, terrible to behold and more fearsome than any stag or lion that had come before._

_As he passed her in the courtyard their eyes met and she felt a shiver run down her spine. His stare was ferocious, filled with hostility and hunger. He looked at her as though he could eat her whole with no more effort than swatting a fly. His gaze was so intense it made her frozen blood run hot, but before she could look away she caught a flicker of something else. Was it longing or loneliness she saw there? Perhaps both, but it was gone too soon, once again replaced with the glaring heat of his feral rage._

_The great animal barked at her, only once, the sound like rolling thunder as lighting flashed through the roiling clouds above. The towers around her shook, and she startled at the sound, but determined now she would not break contact first. He cocked his head curiously at her, stalking right up to where she stood. They were face to face now, and she felt her own hackles rising as she looked into his deep grey eyes. She bared her teeth at him, growling, a low warning growl but he only came closer. He made no sound, but sought to dominate her with his wicked gaze and his hot breath on her muzzle. When she refused to back down he snarled, snapping at her, rear haunches crouched as if preparing to attack._

* * *

Serra Stark awoke with a gasp, sitting straight up in her bed and clutching her furs to her chest. She struggled to bring her breathing under control and felt a chill as the cool late summer air cooled the thin sheen of sweat the dream had produced. She rose with a sigh and prodded the embers of last night's fire, placing two new logs and pausing to scratch the greying fur behind Garick's old ears as he reclined next to the warmth. "We're getting soft, old man," she told him. "We've gotten used to feather beds and warm fires." She sighed bitterly, wrapping a fur around her shoulders.

It was the third time she'd had this dream, though she didn't need the confirmation to know it would come true very soon. Her brother had received a raven yesterday, telling them that the stag king and his lioness queen were on their way. She still wondered about the great angry dog. This was not the first time she had dreamed of him. She had, in fact, been dreaming of him for most of her life. Her visions had started young, foretelling the dark destiny ahead of her, and the feral creature of her dreams played some part in that destiny, though for good or ill she could not say. A lifetime of dreams and she was no closer to understanding his enduring presence as she ever was.

She thought to ask Ned about him, but she feared she would ask him about the rest of the dreams, the ones in which the ancient towers and keeps of Winterfell crumbled and burned, and cold darkness descended on the North, eventually swallowing up the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn't that she feared he would doubt her. He had long since given up his resistance to her sight, or any of the other strange aspects of her nature. She just knew that telling him was futile, he would only drive himself mad trying to change the unchangeable. Knowing the future was more a curse than a gift, and only a lifetime of living with it made it possible for her to process the visions without losing her mind.

She was brought out of her reverie by the sound of little feet padding through the corridor outside her chamber. She unbolted her door with a smile and returned to sit by the fireside, waiting for the little red whirlwind to appear. Soon enough her door crashed open and little Rickon burst through.

"Morning Aunt Serra!" he cried. It was more an announcement that a greeting, and it always made her laugh. He attempted to clamber into her lap as he did every morning, but today his efforts were hampered by the addition of the direwolf cub in his arms. She lifted him into her lap and he snuggled close as she wrapped her arms around him, giggling when she nipped playfully at his ear.

This was their morning ritual and it had started almost as soon as the boy had learned to walk. No matter when she woke, he was always there before she even had time to dress. She suspected he probably woke with her every morning.

"Good morning, my little beast," she said in the old tongue. She had taught it to him from the day he was born, and they practiced it as often as possible, much to Catelyn's displeasure. Displeasing Catelyn seemed to be easier than breathing, though, so she never gave it a second thought.

"Shaggydog's hungry!" Rickon declared, turning around in her arms and holding the small black cub to her face. The tiny beast gazed at her with his bright green eyes, then nipped her nose with his sharp teeth, causing her eyes to water, but Rickon giggled. She scowled at the little mongrel and his cub. "Others take you, that hurt!" she grumbled, making the chubby three year old laugh harder.

Rickon was wearing a long sleeping tunic and nothing else. She set him down gently and ruffled his thick red hair, "You best go put some clothes and shoes on, boy, before your mother skins us both," she told him. "I'll come down and find something for both of you directly."

The boy grinned a toothy grin and sped out the door, bare feet slapping against stone. She shook her head. One of these days he'd take a chill no doubt and Catelyn would blame her for it. Her distaste for her good sister may have inspired her choice of dress for the day, knowing full well that the dark grey leather tunic and breeches made Catelyn swoon in scandalized dismay. She chuckled wickedly. It was terrible to derive so much enjoyment from displeasing her brother's wife, but she really did bring it on herself.

Catelyn had set out on a campaign to change her from the moment she stepped foot in Winterfell three years ago.  _She needs to learn to be a proper lady_ , she had told Ned. They were both strangers at the time, and Serra had felt some obligation to please them. She had tried at first, she truly had, but it was all so pointless. She could make her own clothes well enough already, and she had no need for fancy embroidery. She had no need of any of the things Catelyn or that insipid Septa had tried to teach her, especially their pompous religion and all its ridiculous rules. Eventually she had quit trying.

The only exception was Sansa's harp lessons. Serra had always enjoyed music and could play a lute well enough, so she didn't mind learning the harp under her niece's patient tutelage. The songs she taught her were mind-numbingly dull, but she put up with it for Sansa's sake.

All of the other children had taken to her quickly. They loved her stories of battles with wildling clans, of giants and mammoths and even of Others. Bran especially loved the scarier stories, and unlike Old Nan, her stories came from personal experience. She often went hunting with Jon and Robb, and even Theon, teaching them the way the Free Folk tracked their game. They never failed to bring down a stag, and she was quick to praise them for every successful kill.

When Arya showed interest in swordplay and archery she had encouraged it. She had carved the girl her own wooden sword when the arms master had refused to provide her one, and taught her as much as she could get away with without Catelyn putting a stop to it. She had taught the girl archery and now she surpassed Bran with her skill. She had even made her a set of riding clothes, complete with scandalous leather breeches like her own and took her riding as often as she could, and sometimes they would make camp for a day or two in the Wolfwood so that she could teach the girl to live off the land. She knew, somehow, that the girl would have need of the knowledge someday and tried to prepare her as best she could. Catelyn hated it, but Ned had taken Serra's side, saying they were useful skills and he wouldn't stop his daughter from learning to take care of herself.

Rickon had not needed to get used to her, as he had known her all his life. He had been born two weeks after Benjen delivered her to Winterfell, and she would never forget the moment Ned had placed him in her arms. He was screaming at the top of his little lungs, face as red as his thick red hair, until she had quietly began cooing to him in the old tongue. He had calmed instantly, gazing at her with those grey Stark eyes, listening as intently as if he knew what she was saying. She had been wrapped around his finger ever since, knowing full well that she spoiled him and caring not a whit.

Sansa, however, had been cool at first. She seemed to follow her mother's lead when it came to knowing what or who to look down her nose at. She had begun to warm to her, however, when she showed an interest in the harp, and so Serra had kept up the lessons for Sansa's sake. Now they were friends, and even confidants, though Sansa was still as shocked as her mother at some of the things Serra said and did. Serra didn't mind, though, as long as she had her love.

Serra finished readying herself for the day and moved toward her chamber door. "Are you coming old man?" she called to Garick, and the old dog slowly rose to his feet and padded out the door in front of her. She smiled sadly as she closed the door behind her. He was nine and ten, the same as she. Almost ancient as a dog's life goes. It wouldn't be long before he passed to the other side, and she would be without her lifelong companion.

When he was younger he was always ready, whether for playing in the snow or for fending off attacking clans. He was at once fearsome and playful. He never left her side, not even to sleep, and though she didn't scare easily, her courage was bolstered by his presence. The thought of losing him, of losing that bond, near broke her heart. His running days were over now, had been for some time. He was content to sit by the fireside most days, warming his old bones, and she was content to let him. He had earned his rest.

She made her way to the great hall and Rickon was already sat at the head table waiting as patiently as he could for his early meal. At his side on the bench sat Shaggydog, as though he too was expecting a plate of eggs and ham. Serra sidestepped into the kitchens and called out to one of the servants who had just begun preparing breakfast for the rest of the family. "The little beast is ready for his plate," she told her. The girl smiled and handed her a two plates, already made up and still warm. "I heard him come in, m'lady." The girl explained.

Serra chuckled, taking the plates from her carefully. "Haven't you heard enough times that I'm no lady?" she asked. The girl only smiled again. "Pardons, m'lady." Serra shook her head. It was a running joke with the servants. She was always friendly with the smallfolk in their service and, as usual, Catelyn had explained frequently and shrilly that it was  _unseemly_  to fraternize with the help. Of course, that just made her fraternize all the more, and the servants loved her for it.

She started out the door but then remembered Shaggydog. "If you can find any scraps from last night, Marissa, please bring some to the table." The girl nodded, forgoing any further courtesies, and Serra brought the two hot plates to the table and sat one in front of her feisty nephew, who was already squirming impatiently. She sat beside him and they chatted pleasantly in the old tongue while they ate. When Marissa brought in a plate of scraps for Shaggydog Rickon had insisted they be placed on the table beside him. The serving girl looked at Serra questioningly and Serra shrugged and nodded.

Shaggydog put his forepaws on the table and began eating hungrily.

"Lady Catelyn would be very cross if she saw that," a voice behind her warned. She turned to see Jon walking down the steps with his little white cub scurrying behind him. "Then I guess she better not find out," she smiled sweetly. Jon leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Good morning Aunt Serra", he grinned. "Will you join us in the training yard today?"

"I think I will at that", she told him. "Might be I could use the distraction. With luck I may convince one of the men to spar with me." She grinned wickedly and Jon smirked. "I think you've beaten them all too many times. Their pride won't allow them to spar with you again."

Serra shrugged. "We'll see," she told him. "Jory may be up for a good thrashing."

* * *

Jory Cassel had indeed sparred with her that morning, and his father laughed heartily when she had him on his back with her sword at his throat. As she gave him a hand up she slapped him on the back and told him he was much better than last time. He smiled and looked over at old Rodric who was still laughing. "Why don't you give her a try, Father?" he asked. Rodric pulled at his large white whiskers and shook his head. "I have my pride, boy", his father answered. "I'll not have my sword handed to me by a bloody woman!"

Everyone in the training ground laughed at that, and Serra sheathed her sword. She looked over to see her brother and his wife exiting the keep. Catelyn glared at her but Ned smiled and held his arms outstretched. He took her by the shoulders in greeting and kissed both her cheeks. "Breaking all the boys hearts this morning already, I see."

"Our legs, more like." One of them said, and a fresh bout of laughter followed with Ned joining in.

"Walk with me to the Godswood?" he asked her and when she nodded he turned to the men. "Mind if I borrow my sister for a while?" he asked them. There were some jeers and a few cheers, and one of them had the courage to shout "Please do!" There was more raucous laughter and Ned just shook his head as he linked his arm in his sister's and walked towards the Godswood.

As they passed the armory Serra quickly ran inside and removed her chainmail, setting it on one of the mannequins and placing her helm on the shelf behind. She drew her black bear pelt coat over her shoulders and lifted the skin of strong mead she had left there, taking a pull and returning to Ned. She passed him the skin and he laughed.

"You'll make some lucky man a fine wife someday", he told her.

She frowned at him, eyes narrowing. "Catelyn hasn't been pestering you to marry me off again, has she? It won't work, I swear it by the old gods, Ned. I'll be as fucking crass and crude as it takes to run them off."

Ned chuckled. "She never stops trying to get rid of you." He laughed at both her words and her language. "But you need not worry, I've learned my lesson. I'm like to lose a bannerman if I try to marry you off to one of their sons again." She had had exactly two suitors in the last three years, at Catelyn's insistence. One was the son of Lord Manderly, the other one a Karstark. She had sent them both packing, each more horrified than the next. It hadn't been pretty. She knew Ned had borne the brunt of the fallout from the incident and felt a guilty for it, but not guilty enough to refrain from doing again if need be.

As they reached the heart tree they both sat down on the soft lichen near the warm spring pool at the base of the tree. They sat in silence a moment, passing the wineskin back and forth. This had become somewhat of a tradition between the two of them, sitting in the godswood drinking mead, sometimes talking and sometimes in companionable silence.

She had had her doubts about Ned in the beginning, he was so stiff and dour. But beneath that stuffy countenance lived a man with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. She didn't remember when she had begun to adore him so, but she did, like a girl is meant to adore her elder brother. She regretted never knowing Brandon or Lyanna, but she cherished each moment she had with Ned and Benjen all the more for it. For a wildling girl who never knew her family, she had become very jealous and protective of them in a very short time.

"Will you take me with you to King's Landing?" she finally asked, putting voice to what had been on both their minds since that damn raven had arrived.

He looked at her questioningly for a moment. "How do you know I'll go to King's Landing?" he asked her.

"You'll go." She said sadly. "And I'm going with you."

Ned took another long pull of the mead. "Aye." He finally answered. "You'll go too."

She wasn't happy at the news, just resigned. It was beginning, the terrible downward slope that would usher in a winter like no other before it. She shivered, knowing some of what was to come. She was frightened, even more so by the darkness of things she didn't know or hadn't seen. So much was uncertain, but what she  _was_  certain of was that House Stark would suffer cruelly before it was over, as would countless others. And if she wasn't strong enough to do what the gods asked of her, the whole of Westeros would pay for it. She said a quiet prayer, then, for strength and determination. Snow began to fall softly as she prayed, and she felt an icy tear streak down her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to post this. Its been a rough few weeks. I got a review on the last chapter that said "Bring on Sandor!" Well, I gave you a little taste there at the beginning, but I had to get a little time passage and back story out of the way. Next chapter, I promise, I will bring you Sandor in all his Houndish glory.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please review, it makes me write faster.


	5. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Unhand me.” she spat. “Or I'll unman you.” he felt a slight pressure at his thigh and looked down. To his absolute astonishment she held a dagger to his groin. He pushed her away roughly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your Sandor!

Sandor

 

Sandor Clegane growled as more snow began to fall. Which of the seven bloody hells was he in where snow falls in the summer? When he'd been informed that he would be traveling north with the king's caravan he was less than pleased. He was quite happily miserable in King's Landing and saw no need to go north and be uncomfortably miserable. However, the king had insisted and so here he was, suffering through another summer snowfall. _Bugger._

The trip had been slow and mindnumbingly tedious. The great buggering wheelhouse would move no faster than a crawl, and they covered ground more slowly than if they had all gone on foot. Worse than that, the damn thing broke its axles more often that he took a piss. They had brought four spares with them, and still ran out. After that they would have to make camp and wait for a wagon to go into the nearest village, have a new one made, and bring it back. The whole process generally took a fortnight, during which time all he could do was drink and stare at trees.

And when they weren't waiting on the wheelhouse, they were waiting on the great buggering king. Every hold they passed with any semblance of a tower was an excuse to stop and expect a feast. Sometimes they would stay two or three days until the king had is fill of hunting, eating, and whoring. He should have been grateful when they finally passed into the north lands and near their destinations. Might be he would've been if not for the almost visible boundary between the two lands that said “Welcome to the north, here's some fucking snow.”

Now he could see the gates of Winterfell and was heartened to see a small town outside its walls. He hoped to soon be someplace warm where he could get a good fuck and better wine. He reached behind him and unstrapped his dogs head helm, placing it firmly on his shoulders. The little shit prince had insisted he wear it when they entered the gates to intimidate the northerners. He pulled himself high in the saddle, making his already impressive height even more imposing.

He trotted up to ride just behind Prince Littleshit and the kings guard, taking in the dreary castle. It was gray and looming, weathered with age but no less formidable, not unlike the kings that had built it. The procession passed through the time worn gates and passed the small folk until they entered a courtyard where the household were gathered. He reigned his great destrier in next to the prince and lifted the visor of his helm, gazing at the assembled north men with veiled disinterest.

Dressed in dark blues and grays the Starks stood before him looking every bit as severe as the castle walls themselves. He cast his eyes up to look over the crowd when he suddenly felt someone else's eyes boring into him. He caught sight of a figure standing away from everyone else behind a column, a hood pulled over so the face was hidden, but obviously staring in his direction. As the king made his way into the courtyard those gathered took a knee before him, all but the figure in the black cowl.

He stared intently at the figure, gauging whether he was a threat or merely irreverent when suddenly the stranger pulled back the hood. It was not a man at all but a woman, wearing a mans jerkin and breeches, sword at the hip, black hair braided in small tight lines against her head and down into a myriad of tiny braids that disappeared behind her cloak. She seemed familiar to him, though he could not place her, and she had the look of a Stark.

Despite the presence of the king, the bright white Kings guard, and the shiny golden Lion of Lannister, her deep gray eyes stayed firmly on him. He scowled and nearly flinched as his own eyes met hers, gray on gray, steel on stone. He felt something akin to rage building inside him as he realized she must be ogling his buggering scars. It was the same thing everywhere he went; people either stared at his scars or shied away from looking at him at all.

But no, this woman continued to hold his eyes, barely seeming to notice his ruined flesh. For just a moment the rage melted into something softer as a part of him he kept deeply buried tried to surface. Just as quickly he stamped it back down, angry at himself for almost hoping that someone might see the man beneath the ruin of his face, even angrier at her for making it happen.

He clenched his jaw and his fists in equal measure, feeling the tick in his leathered cheek that gave away his discomfort. With effort he turned his face away from the woman, watching as the king greeted Ned Stark and his family and attempting to forget the woman with the intense eyes. She didn't look away from him, though. He could still feel her gaze boring into him, and he growled his displeasure with no one but himself to hear it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On the third night of their stay there was to be a feast. Bloody hells, he would be as fat as the buggering king himself for all the feasting and blasted little training they had done on the trip. He determined to take to the training yard and get some exerciser before the eating began. As he walked he thought back to the woman in the courtyard. He had seen her a few times since, a flash of black hair and pale skin. He had learned from the Imp (who could learn everything about everyone in a single day) that she was actually Ned Starks long lost sister, raised by wildlings, and the very image of the kings dead love Lyanna. This, he'd been told, is why she'd remained hidden when they rode in. She and Ned had thought it best that the king met her away from prying eyes, unsure what his reaction would be.

He wondered if this was why she seemed familiar to him. He had only seen Lyanna Stark once before when he was but a green lad serving as squire to Ser Armory Lorch. He remembered thinking she was beautiful, but couldn't recall ever really thinking about her since. He couldn't call to mind even a memory of what she looked like to compare to the wildling Stark, so why would he think she looked familiar? And why in seven hells was he thinking of the wench at all?

No doubt she held a certain fascination for him. She was beautiful, no doubt, but so were a lot of women. And like all those women she would never see him as anything more than the fucking scars on his face, so there was no use thinking about her. Still, she was also quite unique. He had yet to see her in one of the austere woolen gowns the women of the north favored, or indeed any gown at all. She dressed, walked and acted like most men he had served with over the years, though far more pleasing to look upon. Even her speech, when he heard it, was course and unrefined, nothing like the highborn ladies he had known through the years. He supposed it was due to her wildling upbringing.

He pondered these things as he passed the stables but stopped when he heard the tromping and whinnying of an angry horse, and shouting of frightened stable hands. _Fucking green boys pestering Stranger again._ How many times did he have to tell the little shits to leave the horse be and let his master handle him?

He strode angrily to the source of the noise but stopped short when he saw the culprit wasn't Stranger, but a large white destrier he hadn't seen before. “I don't care what the bloody king's guard cunts told you, I told you Wraith couldn't share a stall!” he heard a woman's voice yelling. He walked in further to see the wildling Stark staring down at at a frighted stable boy, while another cringed nearby holding an obviously broken arm.

A large boy, of a height with Sandor and wider in girth, patted the white beast's neck soothingly. “Hodor,” he cooed. “Hodor.” Whatever the word meant, the horse settled, but not the master. Another stable boy was nearby cleaning a wound on the neck of a smaller bay. He recognized the animal as belonging to Ser Boros Blount and chuckled despite himself. He knew a horse bite when he saw one, Stranger had doled out more than a few.

“The fuck's the trouble?” he called out as he approached the scene. The wildling looked up at him and seemed startled for the briefest moment before schooling her features into a scowl.

“These buggering fool stable hands your men brought are idiots, that's the trouble.” she growled at him. “Apparently they were told to double up another horse in the stall with mine on the orders of one of your fucking king's guard.”

“Watch how you talk about the king's men, wench.” he bit out, though in truth he gave not a wit about them and would gladly see them all gutted for the mere pleasure of it. “You'll find your pretty head on a chopping block if you aren't careful, you can believe that.”

She strode toward him and met him face to face, and he was surprised both by her boldness and the fact that she was taller than any woman he had known, though he still had several inches on her. “And you better watch how you talk to me or you'll find yourself on the sharp end of my blade.” she snarled. He was so taken aback by her words he almost didn't notice when she turned her back to him as though she held no fear at all. He reached out for her arm and snatched her back to face him.

“Hodor!” the large stable boy cried but Sandor ignored him. He was almost amused by the defiant look on her face, and amazed that she met his eyes with and icy gray glare, never once looking at his scars.

“Unhand me.” she spat. “Or I'll unman you.” he felt a slight pressure at his thigh and looked down. To his absolute astonishment she held a dagger to his groin. He pushed her away roughly.

“Fucking bitch!” he cursed. “No bloody wonder your horse is half wild.”

“You're one to talk.” she told him. “I've met that black devil of yours.” He grimaced. He wasn't expecting her to throw Stranger in his face. He floundered for something to say.

“What's a woman need with a warhorse anyway?” he asked her, feeling like a childish boy.

“What's a dog need with a warhorse?” she countered. He narrowed his eyes. For the first time in his life he felt like he was sparring with an equal, if only with words. “You can't ride a garron into battle, can you?” she finished.

He smirked, trying to ignore the crowd that had begun to gather around. “And how many battles have you fought, little girl.” he asked foolishly.

She growled at him, bearing her teeth a little. “One less than I _will_ fight if you don't get your stupid nose out of my bloody business.” she spat. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and turned away from him again. _Seven save me from willful women._

He was debating whether or not to go after her when he felt a stinging smack to his calves. He swung around looking down toward the attack and came face to face with a small boy with a mass of red curls on his head. He was of a height with Sandor's knees, but didn't seem to realize it. He was holding a wooden sword in his chubby little hands, raising it as though threatening to hit him with it again, and beside him was a black wolf cub diligently gnawing at the leather of Sandor's boots. Sandor growled at him and both the boy and the wolf growled back.

Sandor's eyes widened. “What are you about, whelp?” he rasped in his roughest voice. The boy didn't even flinch.

“You don't yell and my Aunt Serra!” the boy shouted and this time walloped him on the knee with his wooden weapon. Those still gathered howled in laughter. Sandor was thinking seriously about kicking the boy when the wildling woman swooped in and lifted the child in her arms.

“Rickon!” she cooed, and he noticed that her face had softened at the sight of the boy. “My little champion, are you defending my honor, little one?”

The boy nodded solemnly in her arms. “I beated that mean man for yelling at you.” the boy said, and Sandor rolled his eyes.

“I saw that, my fierce little warrior.” she said, tousling the boys hair. She turned her gaze on Sandor and he scowled at her. “You spanked that bad old dog good, didn't you?” Sandor threw his hands up in defeat and walked away, wondering what in seven hells had just happened.  Buggered if he knew, but he needed a drink.

He spotted the imp sitting on a bale of hay, a flagon in his hand. He made his way to him and sat down beside him, all thoughts of training forgotten. The buggering imp chuckled. “Quite the spitfire there, eh Clegane?” he said as Sandor relieved him of the flagon and took a long pull.

He rolled his eyes when the lion joined them. “And quite lovely,” Jamie added, “In a strange, mannish way.”

“Bloody bitch is what she is.” Sandor growled, taking another swallow.

Jamie smiled and looked at his brother conspiratorially. “Well if she's a bitch, and you're a dog, that must have been some kind of mating dance.” the halfman said with a grin.

Sandor stood and threw the flagon back at him. “Shut up, Imp.” he said, stomping off to find different wine with less commentary.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, I had a lot of writing it. Please review.


	6. Ice Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He had it from a group a wildlings he encountered while ranging.” Tyrion had told him. “Apparently, she’s as infamous on that side of the wall as you are on this one.”
> 
> The idea had seemed absurd at the time. “That’s a right load of horse shit.” He’d scoffed.
> 
> Tyrion had shrugged. “No doubt some of it is. The wildlings had all sorts of wild tales about her. Ice Wolf, they call her.”

Ice Wolf

 

Serra’s mind was pressing, pounding with an onslaught of unwanted thoughts, so much so she’d needed a flagon of strong mead to diminish it. She sat in the cool and near-dark of the catacombs trying to make sense of what was happening to her. She had known what was coming, she’d known all her life. Now that it was here, though, it was more than she could handle, more than her mind could comfortably wrap itself around. She needed time to think, to make sense of it all, but time was something she had precious little of.

She had lost so much in her short life, and now she would lose even more. Why couldn’t she just say no? _I could just refuse. Dig my heels in, hide under my bed and refuse to follow this path._ But that was a fools dream. She would play her part in this mummers farce until the last line was uttered. She felt her heart squeeze, it had been doing that all morning, and her throat was raw from choking back sobs. Did she have to lose him too?

She felt so alone. How could anyone understand what she was going through? She had spent countless hours praying at the heart tree, weeping for herself and everyone she loved, reaching through the roots to find a way stop it all before it started. But the gods were silent, and she was alone.

Both Ned and Benjen were here but she couldn’t burden either of them with her suffering, they would soon have enough of their own. And that was part of it, wasn’t it? She knew the suffering they would face, knew what they would all face, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She couldn’t even warn them. What would be would be, and all attempts to stop it would be futile. She could only stand by, alone, and watch this tragedy unfold.

She took another swallow of mead, closing her eyes at the familiar burn of it in her throat and into her chest. The king and his entourage had been here for weeks, and her mind had become more and more cluttered as the days went on. She tried to put on a brave face, had actually found an occasion or two to enjoy herself, but inside she was a mess.

The feast had been awkward and strange. Catelyn had put her foot down and Serra had worn a grey woolen gown, feeling silly and uncomfortable. Her blade was still at her side but without her leathers she still felt naked. Making small talk with the royal family had been a trial. The expected “my lords” and “Your graces” choking her and making her feel like a hypocrite. The king was a bloody fool who took more than his share of everything, shamed his wife, and ignored his children. Serra couldn’t understand why her brother loved him so.

The queen was difficult to read, and she found herself equally drawn to her and repulsed by her. There was a sadness in her eyes that made Serra almost feel protective of her, and in the one or two conversations she had with her Cersie had seemed genuinely interested in her life as a wildling. She sensed the queen was what she might have become had she not been raised in the wilds, and that frightened her. More often than not what softness there was turned cool with little provocation, and she would cast disdainful glances at the people around her. Serra felt sorry for her, but knew she would never allow herself to get too close.

She found the dwarf, Tyrion, quite entertaining. His self-depreciating wit was a welcome distraction to the myriad thoughts bouncing in her head, and he could always be counted on to share a drink and clever conversation. She wouldn’t confide in him, though. He was a Lanister and Ned had warned her that they were treacherous. She wouldn’t damn him for her brother’s feelings, but she wouldn’t trust him yet either.

Ser Jamie was interesting. He was possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen, and unfortunately he knew it, often coming across as far too pleased with himself. Tyrion said his brother was the greatest swordsman in Westeros, but she found it unlikely that a man so blessed of countenance could also be so blessed with skill. She had yet to have an occasion to spar with him, so she couldn’t say for sure how good he was.   But while his wit wasn’t as sharp as his brother’s, he was certainly able to land a fierce blow with his tongue.

Tyrion had seemed to care about her unladylike appearance or behavior. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it, saying that it was good to see a woman who could take care of herself. That he said this in front of the king’s men made her more inclined to like the little bugger. Jamie had been a bit more reserved, but she won him over during an idle conversation one day.

“Why do the men all call you Kingslayer?” she had asked him.

Tyrion answered before he could, “You mean the great Ned Stark never told you how my dear brother broke his vows to the king’s guard and killed Good King Aerys?”

“Mad King Aerys you mean, the one who killed my father?” she had been a little confused. “I thought they were insulting you when they called you Kingslayer.”

Jamie had laughed at that. “That they are, my fair wildling. I not only broke my sworn oath to protect the king, I killed him with my own blade. Most here question my honor, though not to my face.” She remembered how he had frowned when he said it, as though trying to hide the hurt it caused him.

She had been more confused than ever. “He was murdering people, roasting them alive, while the king’s guard watched and did nothing, is that the way of it?”

“It’s the duty of the king’s guard to protect the king, not the people.” Jamie had intoned.

“Yet you killed him and put a stop to it.” She had said, shaking her head. “You protected the people, and that makes you dishonorable. You kneelers are a strange lot.” She had walked away to the sound of the imp laughing, but the Lion of Lanister had been kinder to her since, although for the last several days he had seemed to be avoiding her.

She trained with the Winterfell guards in the mornings, as she had done every morning for the last three years. At first the soldiers who accompanied the royal caravan were furious, but when she ignored their protests and proved her skill most of them had relented and a few had even sparred with her. The king’s guard, however, still refused to share the training grounds with her and would wait until she was through to join the rest of the men.

Sandor Clegane was one who never shared the field until she was done for the day. It was a shame, really, because she had never seen anyone quite as powerful as he was, and she would have liked to test her strength against him. Several days had gone by since their altercation at the stables and she was no closer to understanding his role in things than she ever had been. As far as she could tell he was just an unpleasant, unhappy man who happened to be quite good with a sword.

It was with this thought in mind that she had found herself watching him one day as he stood guard behind the horrible little snot that Ned had betrothed Sansa to. He always seemed to notice when she was watching him and this time was no exception. He turned his spiteful gaze toward her and frowned. She could see the muscles in his neck tensing has he clenched his teeth. She found herself growling in response. Though he was too far to hear it, Tyrion had, and he laughed as he patted her on the forearm.

“Don’t worry about the Hound, my Lady,” he had told her. “He was born with a stick up his arse and a frown on his face. It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”   Serra hadn’t been so sure.

Now after all this time he was still a mystery. They had barely spoken to each other since the stables, and when they had the conversation had been strained at best. If he was an enemy he wasn’t being very covert about it, and she certainly couldn’t say he was a friend. So why was he in every dream? Every single dream? He had gone from making occasional appearances to featuring in her night time excursions every time she fell asleep. Why? Who was he? Why did the gods insist on tormenting her with him?

Now, preparations were being made to leave for King’s Landing two days hence. It would be a difficult parting. Jon would be going to the wall with Benjen to take the black, at Catelyn’s insistence. Thinking of it made her blood boil, but she knew it was meant to be that way.

Bran had fallen from one of the forgotten towers while they had all been away on a hunt. He still hadn’t awakened, and although she knew he would, her visions were of no comfort to the boy’s mother. Catelyn, to her credit, hadn’t left his side, neglecting even to eat and sleep as she needed. Serra would have felt sorry for her, but she just seemed to make everything so much more difficult. That was one parting she wouldn’t lament, but she would weep for sweet Bran and hoped that he would have an easier time with the path laid before him than she had.

Rob would stay, and that was as it should be. Ned said there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and while she hadn’t been raised as a Stark, she knew the saying came from much more than a sense of pride. Winter is coming, that was their words, and though her family may have forgotten the complete significance of it she had faith that they would remember when the time came.

Arya and Sansa would be coming with them, so she didn’t have to say goodbye to them yet, though her dreams assured her it was coming. She wondered if Jon had given the little sword he’d commissioned to Arya yet. He had confided in her what he wanted to do, and together with Mikken they had come up with the perfect design. She knew Ned and Caitlyn wouldn’t approve but she refused to feel the least bit guilty about giving the little wolf a way to defend herself. She only wished she could do more for Sansa, but the girl was all graces and airs, things Serra knew nothing about.

_Rickon_.  Her heart ached to think of leaving her little warrior. He was the brightest sunshine of her life, and to be without him would leave her in darkness. It seemed so cruel for him to be so small while such big things were happening around him. She wanted to be the one to protect him and help him grow up brave and strong, but that task would fall to another. She would pray for him every day, and hope that he’d remember her and the love she held for him.

For all of this sadness, though, all of these partings, the most painful one was already taking place. She wasn’t surprised, she didn’t need green dreams to know it was coming, but the pain was just as sharp. The only thing she had left of her old life was slipping away, and she could do nothing but ease the passage.

This time the sob escaped, and the tears behind it.

* * *

 

 

Sandor had had a long day of watching Prince Joffrey be a little shit. Lord Imp had slapped him when he disparaged the Stark boy who had fallen, and Sandor wished he could have been the one to do it, fully mailed and all. A broken jaw was less than he deserved. Now he thought he might go into Wintertown and see if there was any wine left, or any whores. They would be journeying south soon and just thinking about creeping behind that blundering wheelhouse gave him a thirst.

As he walked past the crypts he thought he heard moaning. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as for one brief moment he remembered the tales his sister had told him when he was a boy about specters and spirits that haunted lichyards. He gave himself a mental slap for acting the boy, and as if to prove he wasn’t afraid he walked down the stone staircase and into the enormous underground chamber where 8000 years’ worth of Winter Kings slumbered.

There was a torch burning several yards away down the corridor of tombs and he could see something slouched against the wall on the other side of its meagre circle of light. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword and walked slowly towards the shape. As he got closer he could make out the body of a woman with a large fur laid out beside her and partially on her lap. He moved a little closer, not sure if she was alive or dead, when he saw her gently stroke the fur she was holding.

She was facing the long row of stony Stark kings, her knees drawn up and her head leaned back against the cool granite wall. It was the wildling bitch. And she was crying. _Seven bloody hells._ He hated crying women, and wasn’t overly fond of this one anyway. He turned around as quietly as he could and tried to get out before she noticed him.

“What are you doing here?” he heard, and he silently muttered curses at himself. He turned around.

“Might ask you the same question.” He said, and realized how stupid it was before it finished leaving his mouth. He sighed and waited for her to sneer at him and point out how ridiculous he was. To his surprise she lifted a wineskin and held it out to him. He cautiously walked toward her, fearing a trap but never one to turn down free liquor.

He slid down the wall beside her in the dim light and took a deep swallow of the liquor inside. It wasn’t wine as he expected but the northern stuff the burned going down and tasted like honey. “These are my ancestors.” She stated when he was done.

“Aye.” He said, though he really didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that.

“If I had been raised here where I was supposed to I would know all their names and what they did. Instead they’re just a great lot of kneelers to me.”

He frowned, still not sure what she wanted from him. “Didn’t lose much, seems like. That’s a load of useless knowledge in the scheme of things.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time, just took the skin from him, staring intently at the unyielding faces before them. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was bitter laughter but still held a hint of amusement. The Hound was at a loss. _Mayhap she's mad in truth_. He had never made a woman laugh before, let alone one that had been crying moments before.

She seemed to have settled, when suddenly she snorted, and threw her head back to laugh even harder. The sound of it and the absurdity of the situation were more than he could take, and he found himself chuckling as well, then laughing hard enough his sides hurt. Certainly he was using muscles that had gone undisturbed for many years.

When she finally quieted down the silence seemed to echo throughout the crypt, louder than their mirth had been.   It stretched out for a long time, but wasn't uncomfortable. They passed several long minutes that way in the dim torchlight, passing the skin back and forth amiably before he finally turned toward her. He welcomed the warm feeling the mead was producing, and his mind was numbed enough that he didn’t mind facing her fully. When he saw the redness around her eyes he knew she had been crying for a long while before he had come.

It was when he put his full attention on her that he noticed the fur she held wasn’t a fur at all, but a large shaggy dog. He hadn’t moved in all the time Sandor had sat next to her, not even during their raucous laughter. It was plain that the old mongrel was gone. Had she been crying over a dog?

However much he disliked the wildling, or thought he had disliked her, she had earned his grudging respect. She was as fierce as any on the training grounds, he knew. He’d never sparred with her but had watched her with great interest and had yet to see anyone best her. She fought with the ferocity and confidence of a seasoned warrior. Tyrion had confirmed this one night, telling him a story that he had overheard from the girl’s brother the crow.

“He had it from a group a wildlings he encountered while ranging.” Tyrion had told him. “Apparently, she’s as infamous on that side of the wall as you are on this one.”

The idea had seemed absurd at the time. “That’s a right load of horse shit.” He’d scoffed.

Tyrion had shrugged. “No doubt some of it is. The wildlings had all sorts of wild tales about her. Ice Wolf, they call her.”

That had peaked his interest. “Aye, Ice Wolf. Ice Bitch more like.” Looking back now he didn’t know why he was so determined to hate her, any more so than he hated everyone at least. Their first encounter aside, she had never wronged him, though she had been no more civil toward him than he was to her. “Did they say how she came by the name?” he had asked finally, curiosity getting the better of him.

The imp had eyed him knowingly, and he’d almost told the little fucker to piss off. Almost. After a moment Tyrion had continued. “Apparently, she killed her first man when she was six years old. There was some raid or another on her camp and all the children and women who didn’t fight were huddled in a single hut to wait it out. Some of the raiders broke into the hut in the chaos and began raping the women and killing children. They say the girl had a dagger her father had given her and used it to kill the first man who got near her. No doubt he hadn’t expected her to put up a fight. When he was dead she quietly made her way around the hut killing the rest of them. It’s hard to believe none of them noticed they were dropping like flies, but I suppose one does lose some sense when he’s busy fucking.”

Sandor had shaken his head. “That’s quite a tale, if it’s true.” _And I was twelve when I killed my first man._ He had felt foolish then, questioning his prowess over a tall tale from beyond the wall. Besides, he’d had no cause to kill anyone before then, save his brother, and he would have done so happily had he been given the chance.

“Oh, but it didn’t end there.” Tyrion had continued. “When the men in the hut were dead, she went out into the battle itself and continued her silent killing spree. Seems she had gotten a taste for blood and she liked it. They found her the next morning after the battle curled up naked and asleep in the snow next to her faithful dog, covered in blood, her last kill lying three feet away.”

“Most like it was the dog that did the killing.” Sandor had reasoned, though having seen her train he recognized the look of a killer.

“Perhaps,” Tyrion stated. “The wildlings also said she could call down wild animals against her enemies in the heat of battle, and that the old gods speak to her. Perhaps it’s all just fantasy. But I have found even the most fanciful tales sometimes hold a grain of truth.” With that the imp had trundled away, leaving Sandor to ponder what he’d said.

If any of the story had been true, then she certainly was the toughest woman he’d ever known. It explained a great deal about the mannerisms so conflicting with the life of a high born lady she had been born to. Mayhap it also explained why Lord Stark seemed to let her do as she pleased, despite the fact that his wife obviously despised her. Not that he thought old Ned was afraid of her. More like he treated her as an equal, a brother in arms. _Sister in arms._

When he thought about it, most of the soldiers in Winterfell who knew her well treated her with the kind of respect gained in battle, not by birth. In fact, he couldn’t remember any of them using her title when speaking to her, something they would only dare do if she had asked it of them, and only then if they trusted her.

All of this led him back to the current situation. He had never seen a woman cry over a dead dog. It just wasn’t the sort of thing they usually cared about, but then this was an exceptional woman. Why would a hardened warrior care about one dead mutt? He thought back to the story Tyrion had told him, how she had been found in the snow curled up next to her dog. Was this the same dog?

_Seven hells_. Now he understood. She wasn’t crying over an animal, she was grieving a friend, a companion, perhaps the only link she still had to her old life. He sighed and ran his hands through his dark hair. Might be he’d grieve too in her shoes.

Speaking softly he motioned toward the lifeless animal. “What was his name?” he asked her.

His voice seemed to pull her from her own silent reverie, and she began stroking the dog’s soft fur again. Fat tears were rolling silently down her cheeks, though she made no sound, and her voice was hoarse when she answered him. “Garick.” She told him. “My father gave him to me when I was a wee babe, the same day he brought me to the village.”

Sandor cringed. More than just a companion, then, a lifelong friend. He’d never had a bond like that with anything, human or animal. He could only imagine how intense the pain must be. _As intense as having your face melted? Could be._ He almost said something stupid like _he lived a long happy life_ , or _he’s in a better place now_ , but thought better of it. He didn’t know how true either of those things were, and anyway he’d most like break someone’s bloody jaw if they said something so foolish to him.

Instead of trying to comfort her, something he had never tried to do before and had no clue where to begin, he went for practicality. “What do you want to do with him?” he asked her. If she was put off by his brusqueness she didn’t show it.

“Thought maybe I’d find a place for him down here.” She answered. “My body’ll never have a spot here with my ancestors, but his could.” He didn’t know why those words touched him so but he found his own voice to be huskier than usual when he answered her.

“Right then, wild girl," he said standing, “Let’s find your good old dog a nice spot to rest.” In the end they had found a tomb that opened easily enough. Serra had had no idea who its occupant was, just “some kneeler,” she had told him. There was naught but bones and Sandor had irreverently brushed them aside, then lifted the old dog over the side and laid him gently to rest.

Serra had said a few words in a language he didn’t know, still crying silently and thankfully without the sobs that had alerted him to her presence here in the first place. When she was finished he moved the cover back over the tomb. Serra pulled a dagger from her belt and wordless scratched some markings onto the tomb, the dog’s name in that strange tongue of hers most like.

Without speaking she lifted the torch from the wall and started back down the corridor toward the entrance. When they reached the stairs that would lead them up she put her hand on his arms and stopped him. He turned to face her and she took a step toward him, mindful to put the torch in a sconce before getting too close. “Thank you.” She said softly, taking both his wrists in her small rough hands. Their eyes met and there was something soft and unfamiliar in those shimmering grey orbs. She opened her mouth as though she was going to say something else, but then closed it again and just smiled at him sadly.

They walked together up the stone staircase, squinting at the bright daylight when they reached the surface once more. Again she turned to him, regarding him wordlessly. Then she did something he never would have expected. Standing on her toes she kissed him lightly on his unburnt cheek, then walked away hurriedly before he could respond.

He found himself touching the cheek reverently when Ser Jamie came up beside him. “Well done, Hound!” the Lion laughed, slapping him roughly on the back. “Melting our little Ice Wolf already, I see.”

Sandor shook off the other man’s hand. “Bugger you,” he growled, but couldn’t stop thinking of that soft, chaste kiss. Mayhap he had melted her a little. Might be she had melted him some too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and reviews. It helps me write fast when I know people are enjoying it. ConCrit is also welcome.


	7. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could hear the clashing of swords all around him now and knew that there was fighting going on up and down the line. He tore through the last of the clansmen that had attacked originally and ran toward Stranger. He saddled him quickly and mounted, riding off in the direction that Serra had just gone. When he got to the wheelhouse he saw their own wounded and dead strewn on the ground, but no attackers at present. The queen was on her knees in her dressing gown, holding Tommen in her arms and crying. Those about her milled around uncomfortably while her ladies maids tried to comfort her.

Sandor

The rising daylight had not yet burned off the last of the morning dew, but Winterfell was already awake and preparing for a busy day. The courtyard was filled with the sounds of horses being saddled and prepped. Provisions for the long journey were being counted and packed away. The wheelhouse was being inspected for any damage that had thus far been missed, and a stack of bright shiny new axles was laid by on a wagon that would travel behind.

In the midst of all this confusion the Lord of Winterfell and his sister made their way through the men and wagons, inspecting the provisions, calming horses, and conversing lightly with the men. Serra smiled and laughed at the bawdy jokes that were being passed around, some in her honor. Inside, however, she was anything but jovial.

She found Jon and Benjen standing away from the group. Already packed and ready to go, they would soon be leaving for the wall. Serra worried that she may never see either of them again. She walked over to them and pulled her nephew into a hug. "Keep him warm up there, Brother." she looked pointedly at Benjen.

"I'll do my best. I wish we had had more chance to talk, just the two of us. There are so many things I wanted to ask you." Benjen stated, running one hand down his chestnut's flank.

"Aye, and many things I needed to tell you." Serra replied.

"Have you ever heard of Mance Rayder?" Benjen asked her.

Serra furrowed her brow as she thought. "Might be. There was an exiled crow by that name, I recall. Seems like he was trying to gather the clans, and not having much luck at it."

"Well then, his luck's improved a bit. He calls himself King Beyond the Wall now. He's threatening war."

"War against the wall?" she asked him. "Only one thing would make the Free Folk get an idea like that. The Others."

"What about the others?" asked Jon, but Benjen shook his head.

"The others are a myth, Serra. Maybe a stronger myth on your side of the wall, but a myth just the same."

Serra gritted her teeth. She had no doubt that Benjen loved her, respected her even, but on this topic he was nothing less than bullheaded. "Aye, a myth, Benjen." she countered. "A myth I have seen and touched and killed." Benjen merely shook his head and returned to his horse.

Serra pulled Jon aside. "They are no mere myth, boy, something your uncle will learn to his sorrow someday. You know I speak truly, you've seen the marks."

Jon nodded solemnly. "Yes, Aunt Serra." Serra watched him for a moment, and when she was satisfied that he was sincere she continued.

"The men on the wall will teach you many things, but they are also wrong in many things. Don't let any sense of loyalty or oaths you may swear get in the way of doing what must be done. You will do great things, dear nephew, but you must listen to your inner voice. There is no honor in dying for an empty cause. Promise me you'll heed my words."

Jon nodded again. "I promise, Aunt Serra. I'll carry your wisdom with me everyday."

Serra snorted a short laugh at that. "Wisdom, is it? Aye, and here's a bit more. The other's are real, and arrows won't kill them, steel won't kill them. Fire and dragon glass, or if you have it, dragon steel. Those are the only weapons that will do them harm. Remember that. And when the time comes eventually that even the Night's Watch can't deny their existence any longer, you can tell them what you know."

Jon's eyes were moist when he threw his arms around his Aunt's neck. "I'll miss you so much." he told her. She returned the embrace forcefully.

"And I, you, Jon. You're very precious to me, and far more special than you know. I will pray to the old gods every night to keep you safe so that we can one day meet again."

"And I will do the same." Jon told her.

She smiled, and pulled him back toward Benjen, whom she kissed lightly on the cheek. "Gods be with you, Brother." she said, and then embraced him.

"And with you, Sister. Take care of Ned down there in the south." Benjen said, squeezing her tightly. "And let him take care of you. King's landing has never been kind to Starks."

Serra scoffed as she pulled away from the embrace. "That's an understatement." she laughed, and then more solemnly, "I'll do all that I can, Brother, you can believe that."

Serra was making the final adjustments to Wraith's tack when a dark shadow moved across her. She looked up to see the Hound beside her, his black destrier beside him. "This must be a difficult parting for you." he said amiably. She nodded, wondering how much to say. She hadn't spoken to Clegane since the day in the crypts, but their silence had been a friendly one, and there was no more animosity between them.

"More than you know." she said finally. "I fear many of those I leave today will be lost to us before I return to Winterfell.

The Hound scoffed. "You planning to be gone that long, Wild Wolf?"

Serra shook her head. "Too long, and not long at all." she said cryptically as she swung up onto her horse. The Hound shook his head and took to his own saddle with a grace a man his size shouldn't possess.

The goodbyes had been said and said again, and it was past time to get the caravan on the road. Those remaining in Winterfell stood in the courtyard to wave their tearful goodbyes to those leaving. As she had expected, it had been difficult to part with the boys, especially Rickon He had cried and begged her not to leave him and her heart had been broken. She wanted to gather him up and take him with her, but he'd be no safer with her than here with his mother.

"Look after your brother." she had told Robb. "He'll suffer the most from this." Then, as an afterthought she added a warning, something that had come to her in a dream the night before, but only once, so might be it could still be avoided. "And don't trust the Freys. No matter what your mother tells you, no matter what the men tell you, don't you ever trust the Freys." Robb had looked at her oddly, but seemed to understand where the words had come from. "I'll remember. Never much trusted the Freys to begin with." Serra had truly laughed for the first time all morning.

Now they were lined up and ready to go. It took quite a bit of coaxing, but they finally got the wheelhouse moving. Ned was riding ahead with the King and his guard, but Serra was waiting for the wheelhouse to go by so she could fall in line with the soldiers behind it. She heard a commotion from the other side of the yard and a young boy screaming "Aunt Serra, Aunt Serra!" Everything after that seemed to happen both too fast and too slow all at once.

Rickon was running across the yard toward her, paying no mind to where he was going. He darted out in front of the wheelhouse, between the giant wheels and the hooves of the horses pulling it. He was going to be crushed, and she was too far away to do anything but scream.  _Not him, please, not him, not my fierce boy, not my Rickon_  She wanted to flinch and turn away, instead urging Wraith forward through the cluster of men an horses between them. She knew she would never reach him in time, but she had to try. She looked for Ned and saw that he was just as far away, and just as helpless.

Her stomach was little more than a ball of acid eating its way though her gut as she watched the horrible scene unfold. Rickon had somehow pushed between the two rows of horses pulling the great contraption., but the commotion he was causing had set them on edge, and they began bucking and straining at their halters. He had almost made his way through when one of the lead horses reared, and when he came down Rickon would be under his hooves.

Suddenly, a large form pushed its way through the crowd of onlookers and darted between the boy and the horse. When the hooves came down they met unyielding metal armor, and a powerful arm pushed the horse backwards and away, while the other arm cradled Rickon protectively.

Serra was off her horse now, and running. Her savior was holding the boy now, the crisis passed, and was trying to comfort him in his own rough way. "See boy, there's your Aunt." Serra reached for Rickon and pulled him to her, collapsing to the ground in silent tears of joy. She looked up at the man who had saved her nephew and met the Hound's eyes. "Thank you." She told him, reaching up a hand to take his. She squeezed it gently, and he looked around as though uncomfortable with the gratitude. He shrugged. "S'nothing." he said and pulled away from her.

But it was not "nothing." She could have endured almost anything, but if Rickon had died under those horses hooves, she knew she would have given up. Gods be damned she would have just given it all up right then.

She continued squeezing Rickon tightly, alternately scolding him for being reckless and kissing him and telling him how much she loved him. Ned was at her side then, looking pale and trembling slightly. He put his arms around them both and pressed his face to Rickon's, muttering words at the boy through his own relieved tears. He looked up toward Sandor who stood at the edge of the gathering crowd. "I don't know how to repay you, Clegane." he said solemnly.

"Didn't do it for you." The hound replied, his eyes never leaving Serra's. Afterward he turned and pushed his way back through the crowd to rejoin Stranger.

Eventually Catelyn made her way through the crowd and pulled the boy from Serra's arms, somehow finding a way to blame the situation on her. Ned did his best to calm his wife down, but she kept on and on until finally Serra said, "We're leaving now, Catelyn. Do you think you can hold on to him long enough for us to go, or should we have one of the men do it?" Catelyn just stared at her, dumbfounded. Serra smirked as she turned away, hoping to keep the memory of that look for as long as she could.

For the first time in weeks she felt a sense of hope. She had come so close to losing the one thing she knew she could never bear to lose. He had been saved, not by her, but by the Hound. What did that mean? Was that another message from the gods? She decided she would take every opportunity on this long trip to learn as much about him as she could.

* * *

They had been traveling for weeks, the return trip even slower and more tedious than the trip north had been. Their company had swelled by scores with the addition of the Stark men, and no one seemed to be in any particular hurry to reach King's Landing.  _At least we've had more luck with the fucking wheelhouse_ , the hound though bitterly. It had only broken it's axle twice since they had left, and quickly replaced with a spare.

For all his grousing over the snail's pace they were keeping, Sandor Clegane was not entirely as miserable as he usually was. He had found some measure of distraction by watching the Wild Wolf. As in Winterfell, she continued to surprise and confuse him. She had been quicker with a smile or a kind word now than she had been towards him, and he assumed it was because of what had happened with her nephew. He wasn't sure what he thought of that, in truth. It had been a long time since he had had a kind word from anyone, and he was unused to the feelings it drew from him. He was a killer, he'd never been a savior before, and the mantle sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.

As before, he was intrigued by the way she interacted with everyone and everything around her. She chose to ride with the men instead of her brother or the other nobles, and seemed to enjoy their camaraderie. She joined in their company, treated them as equals, and to Sandor's surprise even the Lanister men had come to respect her along the way. Whenever they stopped at an inn or a keep, she may join the feasting for a time, but she always returned to her tent among the rest of the soldiers, refusing the more comfortable accommodations she was entitled to as the Lord of Winterfell's sister.

When she wasn't with the men she was with the youngest Stark girl, joining with her in exploring their new surroundings. Like the girl, he supposed, she had never been so far south, and everything around her was new and exciting. If he had been less jaded he might have enjoyed seeing the splendor around them through her fresh eyes. He kept to himself, though, content just to watch her, ashamed of the smirk that sometimes found it's way to his lips when she would get excited over a tree or bird or flower she had never seen before.

While the trip had been slow, it had not been entirely unpleasant, he supposed, though he would not admit to himself why. He told himself he was just happy to be out of the snow and left it at that. But now they were passing the Mountains of the Moon, and he determined to keep himself more alert than he had been. He was surprised when the Wild Wolf rode up next to him and questioned him about it.

"There's clans in these mountains that don't quite bend the knee, girl, if you take my meaning." he told her, his eyes scanning the hills.

She looked at him oddly. "Like me, you mean, like Free Folk? I didn't know there were any this side of the wall. Especially not this far south."

"Aye, a bit like your wildlings, I suppose.", he told her. "They don't have much use for the king or his laws, that you can believe. And they don't much care for people tromping through their mountains, neither. Might be they have the right of it, but that won't stop me from killing them if they attack."

She looked up him, a small frown furrowing her brow. "We're not in the mountains, though, why would they attack us?"

He glanced down at her, then back up a the mountains to their left. "Might be they won't, but they've been getting bolder of late. Jon Arryn used to keep them in check, but with him in the ground they've been testing the waters. A bit of extra caution here wouldn't go amiss."

The girl beside him nodded, but spoke no more. She remained by his side, her eyes also scouring the hills, and he was surprised to find himself relieved to have her there to help him keep watch. He knew none of the Kingsgaurd took the threat seriously, except possibly Ser Baristan who rode ahead with the King and Lord Stark.

He was surprised when Joffrey, riding just ahead, spoke up. "Don't worry, my lady, they won't dare attack us. If they did we'd cut them down, wouldn't we dog?"

The Hound growled low, and he saw Serra suppress a smile. "Aye,  _we_  would at that." he grumbled, and the girl turned her face away, her shoulders shaking. He envied her that, how easily she found amusement in things that made his blood boil. She was battle hardened as he was, scarred even, from the occasional glimpses of skin he sometimes saw. And there was something in her eyes that was as sad as anything he had ever felt. Yet through all of that, she could still laugh when the Prince was being a little shit. The Hound just shook his head.

They had made camp for the night, and not in a place that Sandor would have chosen, but he had not been asked for his opinion. They were surrounded by trees north, south, and west, and the mountains loomed to the east. They were boxed in, a perfect place for an ambush, and Sandor was uneasy. His battle senses were tingling as he walked toward Serra. He noted she seemed to be surveying their camp with the same worried expression.

"Best tell that wolf girl of yours to stay close and not go exploring tonight." he told her.

Serra looked at him and nodded. "Already have." she said, and he wasn't surprised. "I don't like this." she continued. "Not even a decent place to keep watch."

He nodded. "Aye. Couldn't you have said something to your brother?"

"I didn't have to." she answered. "When I rode to the front both he and Ser Baristan were trying to persuade the King to move on to a better site, but that fat lout is as stubborn as his awful son."

Sandor was abashed that she felt free to speak that way about the royals to him, and a little gratified. "Aye." he told her. "That he is. There's nothing for it then, we'll have to keep watch as best we can. No one else is gonna do it."

And so they sat, each facing another direction, as the camp quieted down and an eerie silence fell around them. Neither spoke, but both were grateful for the other's presence as the night wore on. The night was so quiet that Sandor was startled when the girl spoke.

"Sandor." she whispered. "I think I saw something in the trees to the north. He turned his head that way slightly, not wanting to give anything away if they were being watched.

"Well what did you see, woman?" he asked her brusquely.

"It may be nothing, but I would swear it was the glint of steel in the moonlight." as she said it, he caught the same glint, and slight movement in the trees to the west. He slowly moved he hand to the hilt of his sword, and saw she was doing the same. "They've circled around." she said.

"Aye." he answered. "I was afraid of this." With that he stood swiftly, the girl right behind him. As one they drew their swords and let loose a warning cry.

Knowing they had lost their surprise, the clansmen in the woods descended upon them, at least a dozen here, and he could see more coming out of the woods farther down the encampment. They must have circled from the south as well. He didn't have long to think on it before the battle was joined, and he and the Wild Wolf stood back to back, hacking and slashing through the attackers. Their weapons were mostly rusted axes and swords, pitiful things, but what they lacked in arms they made up for in fury.

Sandor had to move swiftly to take them down before more were upon him. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the girl was holding her own. She had both long swords drawn and was meeting her attackers blow for blow, at times three at a time. She brought her swords together in an x at the throat of one of the clansmen and drew them apart, severing his head, she wasted no time spinning and thrusting her swords backwards into two more attackers rushing toward her.

Sandor had cut down five of his own, and there were only a handful left when they heard a scream come from deeper in the encampment, toward the wheelhouse. They looked at each other briefly. "I've got this." he told her. "Go."

She did as he said, running toward the horses that were hobbled nearby. She quickly loosened her white destrier and leapt on her back, not bothering with saddles or tack. She dug her heels into the horse's sides and shouted a command in that strange language of hers. The horse moved off into the blackness, looking much like her namesake until he lost sight of them both.

He could hear the clashing of swords all around him now and knew that there was fighting going on up and down the line. He tore through the last of the clansmen that had attacked originally and ran toward Stranger. He saddled him quickly and mounted, riding off in the direction that Serra had just gone. When he got to the wheelhouse he saw their own wounded and dead strewn on the ground, but no attackers at present. The queen was on her knees in her dressing gown, holding Tommen in her arms and crying. Those about her milled around uncomfortably while her ladies maids tried to comfort her.

"Dog, where have you been?" Prince Joffrey snapped at him when he saw him.

Sandor snarled. "I'm covered in blood, boy, where do you think I've been."

"They took Myrcella." the queen sobbed. "She opened the door to see what the noise was and they took her!" Sandor paled. It was possible the clans would hold her for ransom, but more like they'd have other plans for a pretty little girl like her. He looked up at several members of the Kingsgaurd standing nearby.

"And why haven't you gone after her?" he shouted.

"We're protecting the queen." Meryn Trant sneered. "Besides, there are plenty of men after her. And that wildling woman, too."

"Looks more like you're hiding behind the queen." the Hound growled. He noted not so much as a drop of blood stained any of the their pretty white clothes. "Which way did they go?" Boros pointed east, and Sandor spun his horse around and headed in that direction. It wasn't long before he encountered a group of Stark men fighting off a score of clansmen. He joined the battle, hewing through them on horseback while Stranger kicked and bit and trampled men underfoot. When the group was down, he spun around again when he heard horses riding fast toward him.

He made ready to fight but lowered his sword when he saw it was their own men, with Serra in front. She was covered head to foot in blood as was her white horse, and the your Princess was nestled in front of her, clutching to her tightly and her face buried in the young woman's armor. Serra's eyes met Sandor's questioning ones and she shook her head slightly as she rode past with the King and several others riding behind her. He followed behind and reached the camp just as Serra was handing the terrified girl down to her mother.

"I've never seen anything like it, Cersie." King Robert was saying. "When we arrived two of them had her pinned down and another had a knife to her throat. I was afraid to move, but the Stark girl just threw a dagger that went right through the eye of the one at her throat and snatched Myrcella up and away from the other two before the rest of us could do a thing. It was the most god damn impressive thing I've ever seen."

Serra shrugged. "She's not the first child I've had to go after when they've been carried off." she said, and a nameless sadness passed across her face. "I'm just glad I got to this one in time." She had dismounted Wraith and turned to lead her away when Myrcella wrenched out of her mother's arms and ran to her, throwing her arms around her waist. Heedless of the blood and gore the girl nestled her face against the young woman's stomach. "Thank you." She said looking up, her face bloody and tear stained.

Serra crouched down and put a hand on the girls face. "You're very welcome, little princess." she said, caring nothing for the courtesies she wasn't showing. "You're a very brave girl. I hope I have a daughter like you someday."

Myrcella smiled, and turned to the King. "Father, she saved my life, you should knight her." Robert looked uncomfortably at his daughter and then at Ned, but Serra saved him from his embarrassment.

"No need for that, Princess." she said, standing up. "Don't have time for it anyway, I need to look after my horse."

"But you're hurt." Ned told her. "You should see the maester."

"I'll be fine." she told her brother, "One of the men'll see to it. I've been hurt before." Then she turned away, leading Wraith gingerly through the crowd that had gathered. Sandor dismounted and followed behind her.

"You  _should_  see a maester, that's a nasty gash in your side there." he said when they were away from the main encampment.

"There's plenty more wounded." she said. "Some worse than me. I've had worse."

"Well there's a stream up ahead." he told her. Let me grab my bag and we'll get your cleaned up." She turned to look at him and then nodded.

* * *

Serra was at the bank of the stream with her leather jerkin off when Sandor arrived with his pack. She looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her dressed only in a light tunic, gingerly washing away as much blood as she could in the cold water. He knelt beside her and rummaged through the sack, pulling out a piece of cloth. He handed it to her and she nodded her thanks before dipping it in the stream and using it to scrub at the gore.

He took out another cloth and wet it as well. "I'll have to lift your tunic to get at that gash, girl." he said gruffly.

She reached back and took the hem in her own hand, raising it enough for him to get to the slash in her side. He clicked his tongue against his teeth at the sight of the angry wound, as well as the scars that marred the visible flesh around it. He began to scrub away the blood around the wound as gently as his large hands could manage. She flinched but otherwise made no sound.

"Do all wildling women fight as you do?" he asked her as he worked.

"No more than all men do." she answered. "Some are content to be wives and mothers, just as some men are happy to farm. Truly, only a handful of women learn to fight, and fewer still become warriors."

"Hmph." he grunted. "I take it you have as little interest in being domestic as you have in being a lady."

She laughed at that, then hissed as he touched a particularly tender spot. "I may want to be married someday, and I'd like to be a mother if the gods will it. Just not yet." she was quiet for a moment and then added "I've got too much to do yet."

She hissed again as he poured a stream of Dornish Sour over the wound. He handed her the skin saying "Drink up, girl. I'm gonna have to stitch this wound." She obliged and took a long draw as he prepared the needle and horsehair thread. She balled her hands into tight fists and set her jaw as he began to sew, but was still and quiet.

He continued talking to keep her mind off the pain. "It's a good turn you did for the princess." he said. "She'd have gotten no mercy from the mountain men, you can believe that."

"I know." she said, her voice tight. "I saw it in their eyes. They didn't care that she was a princess, or that she was just a child, she was just a piece of meat to them. I've seen that look before." she laughed humorously. "Hells, I've cut that look off many a man's face myself."

"So I've heard." he told her. "Is that what you meant about saving children from being carried off?"

She shook her head and looked at him, wondering how much to tell him. Finally she pulled her tunic up higher, exposing a dark red blistered scar in the shape of a skeletal hand that rested just below her breastband. Sandor stopped what he was doing and gazed at the scar. "What in seven hells is that?" he asked.

"The mark of an Other." she said in a voice that brooked no argument. Still, he couldn't stop his automatic response. "The Other's are a myth."

She scoffed at that, disgusted. "So you kneelers keep saying." she growled. "Do you honestly think your ancestors built a seven hundred foot tall wall of fucking ice to keep out the Free Folk? You southerners may have forgotten, but we live it everyday."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, but he could tell she meant what she said. "Go ahead and tell your story, Wild Wolf." he appeased her.

Her eyes took on that sad faraway look again, and he almost regretted bringing it up. They were surrounded by trees in the soft moonlight, and the stream bubbled happily past on its way to the rivers beyond, but he knew she was seeing a cold expanse of windswept snow. "One of the women had just given birth the day before." she said. "We had had a few run ins with the Others while out hunting, so we knew they were close. They must have heard the cries of the babe, and it drew them to the village. It was the first time they had come so close to us." She paused to wipe away a tear the memories had brought to her eyes.

"They attacked us at dusk, taking us by surprise. We lost a dozen men at least, before they retreated. We thought we had beaten them back, until we heard a scream from one of the huts. I was the first one there, the first to see it. Sonra, the mother that had just given birth, was holding down one of the other women. Her skin was pale and white and her eyes blue as sapphires and glowing. She had become a wight. The babe was gone; the Others had taken him."

"Why would they do that?" Sandor asked, absorbed in the story now. He was finished stitching and using the cloth to dab a healing ointment to the wound.

Serra shook her head sadly. "It's how they increase their numbers." she explained. Those they kill become wights, but Others are different. They can only be changed as babes, and grow as living and dead at once. They took him to make him one of their own."

"So you went after them." Sandor surmised. He was done now, and was lifting the tunic here and there to search for more wounds, stalling to hear the rest of the story.

"Aye, we went after them, but we were too late. The babe was turned when we found him."

Sandor let out a long breath. "What did you do?"

In answer she pulled a blade that was strapped to her thigh, handing it to him hilt first. It was made entirely of obsidian, and glinted black and dangerous in the thin light of the approaching dawn. "Only three things will kill an Other." she said, "Fire, Valerian steel, and dragon glass." she nodded toward the dagger. "We killed as many of the Others as we could, a few more of our men falling and rising again. Eventually I got close to the babe. That's the blade I used to kill him." she said, and wiped away another tear.

"Seven Hells." Sandor whispered. He thought he had been forced to do some terrible things, but he'd never had to kill a babe. His brother would have taken pleasure in the task, but he wasn't sure that he could have done it.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." she said, as though reading his thoughts. She was silent again for a moment, and then shook her head, as though shaking the memories free. "Afterward I fell to my knees with the babe in my arms. I didn't see the Other that had crept behind me. It would have killed me, but my father got there first. He killed it, but not before it put its icy dead hand on my back. It burned as hot as any fire, and left that scar through armor and cloth."

Before he even knew what he was doing Sandor reached up to stroke her cheek, wiping away another tear that had escaped. "You're a strong woman, Wild Wolf." he told her. "Strongest woman I've ever known, believe that."

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. "I hope so." she said softly. "I'll have to be to see this all through."


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Queen says kill so I kill. I’m a bloody killer, same as you, I just did my duty.”

              Chapter 7

 

  Things were quiet for a while as the caravan made its way slowly through the vale.  It wasn’t until they had reached Darry that word came to them of a group of bandits that had been terrorizing roads and villages nearby.  While the main company remained camped near the banks of the Trident, a small group made up of both Stark men and the King’s soldiers rode ahead to find the bandits and take care of them.  Serra went as well, relishing the chance to stretch her horse’s legs and swing her sword.

                The bandits were found not five leagues from the main camp and dispatched quickly.  Serra smiled as they rode back to camp, enjoying in the freedom the sortie had granted her.  She kept Wraith at a light canter, basking in the warm breeze that blew down from the river, still carrying the faint scent of water and earth.  Serra had never felt a truly warm day, and though her heart would always belong to the snowy north, she couldn’t help but enjoy the warm sun on her skin.

                Her bright mood, however, was darkened upon returning to camp.  The atmosphere was heavy, and she immediately knew something was wrong.  She quickly sought out Ned, and found him near the stables, cleaning his dagger with a grief stricken look on his face.

                “What’s happened, brother?” Serra asked breathlessly.

                Ned didn’t answer, only pointed with his dagger toward Jory and a few other Stark men who were carrying a covered litter.  Serra approached the men and bid them halt so she could see for herself what had happened.  She noted a white paw had slipped from beneath the cover, and with dread she pulled the rest of it back.

                Serra gasped when she saw Lady there, her throat cut and her lifeblood drained away.  Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the heartbroken sob that threatened there as tears sprang to her disbelieving eyes.  “Oh, Ned, what have you done?” she whispered.

                “The king sentenced her to die.  He sent his headsman to take care of it, but Insisted on being the one to carry out the sentence.  Better to die by my hand than a stranger’s.”

                “But why, Ned? What had she done?”

                Ned made a growling noice deep in his throat.  “Lady did nothing.” He said.  “There was apparently an incident on the river bank between Arya and Prince Joffrey and the young man that Arya has been playing swords with.  During the altercation Nymeria bit the Prince, likely because she sensed he was a threat to Arya.  Arya ran away and forced Nymeria into the wild to keep her from being harmed, but the Queen insisted that one of the wolves had to pay for biting her son.  So King Robert decreed that Lady should be put down in Nymeria’s stead.

                “Did she truly hurt the prince?”  Serra asked, her hands shaking, tears leaving wet tracks down her cheeks.

                Ned grimaced.  “The prince is fine, others take him.  It’s Sansa I’m worried about.”

                “My poor girl.” Serra sighed.  “She must be devastated.  This is so unfair!  I know you love your king, but I’d like to gut him and that hateful wife of his.”

                “I would almost agree with you, but you should be careful what you say.” Ned told her.  “As for Sansa, she’s beside herself.  She won’t speak to me or anyone else.  And she blames Arya more than anyone, even the Queen.”

                Serra frowned.  She knew the direwolf pups had been gifts to the children from the Old Gods themselves.  There was a bond between each of them that would not be easily severed, even in death.  Sansa’s grief would be that much worse.  It pained Serra to think what her niece must be going through.

                “I’ll speak to her later, when she’s calmed down a little.” She told her brother.  When he said nothing, only stared at the lifeless direwolf that was now being loaded onto a wagon, she put her hand on his shoulder.

                “It’s not your fault, Ned.  Don’t blame yourself.”

                “I cannot help but blame myself, sister.” He said, his voice thick with emotion.  “I feel like I’ve failed her.  Failed them both.”  Serra could think of nothing else to say, and so she embraced her brother and offered what comfort she could.

                They remained this way for a few minutes before they heard hoof beats coming from the road that led to the village.  The hound was riding toward the wheelhouse with something slung across the back of his ill-tempered mount.  As he got closer Serra motioned for him to pause.  Before she could speak Ned’s curiosity caused him to move aside the tarp that lay over the bundle wrapped up across the horse.  He stifled a cry when he got a look at it.

                “The butcher’s boy.” He snarled with a note of disgust.  “You ran him down!”

                Even Serra was repulsed by the Hound’s reply.  “He didn't run very fast.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sandor Clegane was sat on the steps of the watchtower farthest from the keep.  He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and with his Dornish red.  His mind was filled with the cries of the young boy he had cut down, and of the look of revulsion on the wild wolf’s face when she saw what he had done.  He didn’t know why he cared about either.  He had never before had any remorse for killing.  It was simply what he did. 

As for the girl, his heart sank when he thought about the look she had given him.   She was the first person he had ever known who could look past his scars to see the rest of him.  She had never once flinched, had never even mentioned them.  That meant something to him, though best not dwell on what that might be.  Still, to have her hate him was almost too much to bear.

He took a long pull from his wineskin and slumped against the door, disheartened.  _No way around it, Dog.  You are what you are and people will always hate your for it._   But he didn’t want her to hate him.  That was the real problem.  For the first time in years he actually cared what someone thought of him, and now he had shat all over it.

Lost in thought as he was, he didn’t notice that the object of his musings was standing in front of him until she reached out for his wineskin.  He handed it to her, his brow wrinkled in confusion.  She took a swig and grimaced.  “I don’t know how you drink that foul stuff.” She told him, as though there was nothing else to talk about.

Sandor shrugged.  “I’ve got bugger all else to settle me when my blood is up.” He replied.  Serra took a seat next to him on the steps and they sat that way in silence for a few moments before she finally brought up the subject they were both thinking about.  “And I suppose your blood is up from killing that boy.” She snorted.  She took another small sip from the wineskin and grimaced.

“The Queen says kill so I kill.   I’m a bloody killer, same as you, I just did my duty.”

“Your duty my ass.”  Serra answered.  “Bugger your duty, you killed a child.”

“You’re no better.” Sandor rasped.  “You killed a baby.”

Serra growled menacingly.  It was almost enough to make the Hound shrink away.  He knew he had crossed a line, but he didn’t care.  “How dare you.  I shared that story with you as a friend, not so you could use it as an excuse to murder an innocent child!  You know I had no choice!”

“Neither did I, woman!” Sandor hissed.

“You could have refused.” Serra countered, no longer yelling at him, but still with eyes narrowed and flashing, a clear reminder that she was a direwolf in truth and not to be fucked with.

Sandor nodded.  “Aye, I could have.  Then my head would be on a spike and she’d have sent someone else to kill the boy.”

Serra said nothing for a long minute. When she did speak she turned to face him, to look him in eyes.  “What if she had commanded you to kill Arya.  Would you have killed my niece?”

Sandor didn’t flinch, though his mouth was tight and his eyes narrowed as he answered.  “I did it so no one _would_ be asked to kill her.  The queen got the boy and the direwolf, that’s enough blood even for that cold bitch.  She’ll leave the little wolf alone now.

Serra nodded, and sat back against the door.  She seemed to be mulling over that answer in her head while she took a long drink from the skin and grimaced again.  Finally she stood unceremoniously and handed him back his skin.  “You’re right.” She told him.  “It does settle the blood some.”  She walked away without another word and Sandor found himself aching in the absence of her, and hoping she understood his meaning.  _It’s up to her now, dog._

* * *

Serra was sitting between her brother and some fat lord or other at yet another feast in honor of the new Hand of the King.  This was the third she had attended, and there had been at least two that she had begged out of.  There was only so much roast pigeon in mushroom sauce a person could eat without going mad, and she was damn close to reaching that point.

                Ned was no help at all.  If he wasn’t being honored he was up to his neck trying to repair the damage his dearest friend had done to the Seven Kingdoms. She would laugh if he wasn’t so overwhelmed by it all. 

                At this particular feast Serra found herself sitting across from the Queen, who had been regarding her with interest throughout the meal  When she finally did speak Serra almost didn’t realize she was speaking to her.  “What do you think of King’s Landing?” the queen asked her.

                “It stinks.” Serra answered truthfully.  “And it’s noisy.”

                The queen regarded her for a moment, her wine glass tipped slightly in her hand.  Serra began to feel like a bug under glass.  Finally the queen spoke again.  “You’re very honest.” She told her.

                Serra thought on that for a moment.  “Not as honest as I could be.” She finally said.  Sandor Clegane was standing behind his charge two places down from the queen.  From where she sat she had a full view of his face.  At her last words an uncharacteristic smirk appeared there.  They had maintained a somewhat uneasy relationship after the incident with the butcher’s boy.  Serra understood why he had done what he had, but she was still angry about it.  However, she had felt lonely without his companionship, and it felt good to think they were sharing a little secret here.

                Ned had noticed her words as well, and he had stopped his conversation with Robert to regard her with what he obviously hoped was mild curiosity, but was more like terror.  He was clearly worried about what she would say next.

                He needn’t have worried, of course.  She would say nothing to jeopardize him or his position, and she was a little saddened that he didn’t realize that.  AT the same time, she could only be herself.  She had the concept of diplomacy, but it felt like lying and was unnatural to her. Still, she would try for Ned’s sake.

                After another long moment of scrutiny the queen’s next statement surprised her.  “I like you, Lady Stark.” She told her.  “You’re not like other women.”

                Serra scrambled to find an appropriate answer.  “I….thank you.” She said, then added hastily, “Your Grace.”

                Down the table, next to the Prince, both Sansa and her septa nodded approvingly, making Serra inwardly cringe.  She hated sounding like a kneeler, but it was necessary for now.

                “I haven’t had a chance to thank you again for saving Myrcella from those horrible mountain men.”

                “That’s quite alright, Your Grace.” Serra answered, cursing herself that the words were coming more easily.  “I merely did what any of your guards would do.”

                “I disagree, you did what none of my guards did.” The queen answered, and Serra had to concede that was true. “Myrcella says she asked her father to knight you and he declined.”  Serra had no idea where this was going but she wasn’t sure she liked it.  To her right she could see the Hound frowning, to her left both her brother and the King were frowning.  Serra was at a loss for words, but she was spared the trouble when the queen spoke again.

                “Unfortunately, I cannot rectify that oversight.” She said with a pointed look at the King, who pointedly looked at his potatoes.  Another moment passed before she continued.  “Have you found ways to pass the time here in King’s Landing?” she asked, her seemingly abrupt change of subject almost confusing.

                “Well, Your Grace, I train in the yard in the mornings, I spar with any who don’t mind being beaten by a woman.  I also go riding in the afternoons.  Everything here is different than I’m used to, and I’m still learning the animals and plants of the area.  And of course, evenings I spend in the godswood at prayer.”

                “Yes,”  Cersie nodded.  “I have heard you’re quite devout to your old gods.  Tell me, do they answer your prayers?”

                Serra felt more surefooted on this terrain.  “The Gods always answer my prayers.” She said.  “I just don’t always like the answers I get.”

                Cersie smiled, “How marvelous.” She mused.  “Tell me, do you ever get bored here?”

                “From time to time.” Serra answered.

                Again, the queen seemed to mull her answer over for a moment before leaning across the table in a conspiratorial gesture.  Serra found herself leaning across to meet her.  “I have a proposition for you, Lady Stark.”

                “I’m all ears, Your Grace.”

                “I would like you to act as guard for my children.” Cersie said simply.  “Not all of them, of course. Clegane has Joff well in hand.  I mean for you to guard Myrcella and Tommen. What say you?”

                Serra was taken aback.  “Surely someone in the Kingsgaurd would be better suited…” she started but the queen cut her off abruptly.                        

                “The Kingsgard,” she sneered, “did nothing to save my daughter.  None of the guards helped my daughter.  Her own father didn’t save her.  You saved her, Lady Stark, and it’s you I trust to watch out for her now.”

                “Your Grace, I don’t know what to say.” Serra spared another look both left and right, but was met with shocked faces on both sides.

                “Say yes, of course.” Cersie said, leaning back again and taking a sip of her sweet arbor gold.  Serra reached for her own goblet and drank it down in one gulp.  It was weak and too sweet for her taste, but she felt a bit fortified, though she longed for mead just now.  “I’ve already had a suit of mail made for you.  I cannot knight you, but at least you can dress the part, and I can’t have you guarding my children in leathers.”

                Serra’s head was swimming.  This night had certainly taken a strange turn.  “Thank you, Your Grace that is most generous.”

                “Keep my children safe, Lady Stark.  They are the most important things in the world to me, and I am trusting you with their lives.”

                As if there wasn’t already enough weight on her shoulders, Serra felt this responsibility settle there uncomfortably.  “I will see to them as though they were my own blood, Your Grace.” She said solemnly, and this seemed to please the queen, who smiled brightly.

                “Then it’s settled.” She told her.  “I will see you on the morrow in my chambers and we will discuss your new duties.  Now tell me, will you be riding in the tournament next week?”

                From there the conversation turned to more mundane things, but Serra’s mind was elsewhere.  This appointment was completely unexpected, but it must play a part in her journey. It was true what she had said about the gods answering every prayer, and true that sometimes she didn't like the answer.  In this case, however, she didn’t even know what the question was.

               


	9. The Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serra attends her first jousting tournament, and it's a lot more exciting than she imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay between chapters. I have a medical condition that makes it difficult for me to write sometimes, so I just have to take it when I can get it. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I had to get the tournament out of the way before the real action could start.

Chapter 8

 

The sun was high in the sky on the first day of the tournament being held in honor of the new Hand of the King.  It looked to be a gorgeous day, if a bit warm, and Serra smiled at the smell of grass and horses.  It had been so long since her nose had encountered anything but the stench of King’s Landing that she found herself taking deep breaths so that she could remember the fresh air later.

                She was on duty today, guarding the young prince and princess in the royal box with the rest of the family.  As she climbed up to join the royal family she stopped to say good morning to her nieces, and a curt greeting to their ever present septa.  Ned wasn’t there yet, still working no doubt and missing the tournament held in his honor. 

                The melee was about to start, and everyone sat on the edges or their seats as the combatants took the field.  Serra watched with keen eyes as the group of men filed onto the field, hacking and slashing at each other as the eager crowd looked on.  In the middle of the fray, standing out with his impressive height and intimidating dog’s head helm, was the Hound.

                Sandor Clegane fought as though his life were at stake, giving no quarter and eliminating combatants at every turn.  Serra watched with interest as he moved, his powerful arms delivering blow after blow.  Were this a real fight, the ground would be littered with corpses at his feet.  The only time she saw him falter was when Thoros of Myr approached him with his flaming sword.  Even that was only a minor deterrent, and Clegane quickly gained his composure.  With a cry of rage he knocked the sword from the red priest’s hand and continued on without a second glance.

                The Melee lasted most of the morning, but seemed over too quickly.  When it was done, only the Hound remained, the crowd roaring in approval.  Instead of raising his arm in victory as was his right, he walked quietly off the grounds and rejoined the royal family, taking his customary place behind Prince Joffrey. 

                Serra leaned over and whispered “You fought well.”  Clegane merely grunted in response, and Serra chose to take it as gratitude.

                There was entertainment next, with fools in motley capering across the grounds to the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Afterward there was jousting, with minor lords and hedge knights having at each other, but the bulk of the jousting would take place on the morrow.

                At the end of the day the crowd dispersed and the feast began.  Serra sat between Sansa and Ned, Arya having left some time ago for a “dancing lesson.”  “What did you think of the melee?” Serra asked her niece.”

                “It was very exciting.” Sansa answered, her face lit up.  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

                “You will see many more as my queen.” Prince Joffrey said from Sansa’s other side.  “IF you like, I will hold a tournament in your honor as a wedding gift.”

                Sansa beamed.  “Oh yes, I should like that very much, my prince.” Serra rolled her eyes and took a long draw from her wine glass.

                Turning to Ned she asked “And you, brother, how did you like the first day of your tournament?”

                “I thought it was bloody expensive.” Ned murmured.  He was clearly serious but his words brought a chuckle from the king.

                “Lighten up, Ned.” The king told him.  “This is meant to be fun.”

                Ned nodded.  “Of course, Your Grace, I forget myself.  The melee was quite entertaining.”

                “That it was.”  The king nodded his agreement.  “My son’s sworn shield proved himself once again.  Well done, Clegane.” The king raised his voice at the last, to better be heard by the man himself.

                Serra smiled and raised her glass.  “To the Hound!” she cried, and the assembled company raised their glasses to join her.  “The Hound!” they said in unison.  Serra couldn’t help the smile that crossed her lips when Clegane glared at her unappreciatively across his flask.  It was obvious the man was well into his cups, and she wondered why he so clearly preferred to be miserable.

                The feast continued with several courses, each richer and more decadent than the last.  Serra had never seen so much food in one place, and for a while her mood darkened as she thought about the cold north and the days without food she and her villagers had sometimes suffered when game was scarce.

                She was brought out of her brooding when she heard the prince call “Dog, escort the Lady Sansa back to her rooms.”  Serra watched Sansa’s face fall, clearly not ready to leave, especially with the Hound.  Still, she dutifully stood and followed the big man from the feasting tent.  Serra made a mental note to check on her niece when the feast was over.  Then she turned her attention back to her brother and rejoined the conversation.

 

 

* * *

 

                “Why didn’t you join the melee yesterday?”  Clegane was readying himself for the joust, struggling to put his armor on by himself, when the wild wolf joined him in his tent.  The buggering woman entered without so much as a by your leave and began pulling on the straps and buckles as though he had asked for her help.

                “What would have been the point?” she asked as she tugged his corget into place.

                “Forty thousand gold dragons is the point.” He answered gruffly.

                “I have no need of money.” She answered, and he sniffed.  “Everyone needs money, even you highborn lot.”

                Serra shook her head, not taking the bait.  “You need it more than I do, obviously.  It would have been a shame to beat you and take that away.”  She smiled mischievously and Sandor found himself growing frustrated by her japing.

                “Think you would have beaten me, eh Wild Wolf?  I wager you’d be a better opponent than most, but you would fall like all the rest.”

                “Oh you think you’re so tough.” She laughed.  “I’ve taken tougher than you, believe me.”  Sandor’s mind went to dangerous places with that comment, but he kept them to himself.  “Why are you here?” he chose to ask instead.

                Serra pulled a ribbon from the sleeve of her armor.  “I came to bring you this, “she answered him, brandishing the ribbon in front of him, “Though you don’t deserve it after the way you scared poor Sansa last night.”

                Clegane turned serious.  “Did she tell you what we talked about?”  He asked her.  Serra frowned.  “No, only that you frightened her.  You shouldn’t be so gruff with her you know.

                “Someone needs to be.” He answered.  “She has her head full of stories and songs, she has no idea how the world really works.”

                “That’s true enough, but what makes you think it’s your place to set her straight?”

                Sandor grunted.  “It may not be my place, but I’ll not stand by and see her fooled by her own bloody notions if I can prevent it.” He answered her.  “Now what did you mean to do with that fucking ribbon?”

                Serra laughed.  “I meant to tie it around your fucking sword.” She answered with a lopsided grin.  “Sansa assures me it’s what us “highborn lot” do for our champions.”

                “I’m no one’s bloody champion, Wild Wolf.” Sandor told her.  “Keep your fripperies.”

                Serra tied the ribbon to his sword, ignoring his protests.  “Today you’re my champion, Sandor Clegane.  Win this tournament for me.”

                Sandor growled in frustration.  “Fine, but you’ll not share my winnings.”  He watched her out of the corner of his eye, and held back a grin when she looked suitably scandalized.  What was it about this woman that made him such a fool?  He watched with interest as she finished tying on the ribbon, even blushing a bit when she looked back up him, but she didn’t answer his taunt so he nodded solemnly.  “Fine, then, Wild Wolf.  I’ll win for you.”

                Serra smiled brightly.  “Good.  I hear your brother is jousting today as well, why was he not in the melee?”

                “You stay away from my brother!” Sandor bellowed, and was ashamed at his own reaction.  Serra merely cocked her head and looked at him, through him, with those deep grey eyes that confused him so.

                “Sandor…” she started, then closed her mouth as though she thought better of it.  When she spoke again her voice was soft and hesitant.  “Your brother did that to your face, didn’t he?”

                Sandor was accosted by a mix of emotions so rich he had trouble focusing on just one.  He meant to respond with anger, but was chagrined to find it was the fear that won out.  How did she know about his brother?  Had the little bird peeped?  Probably not, she had been well afraid of him last night.  No doubt Serra had merely guessed.  She was too smart for her own good sometimes.  He was also shocked to realize that this was the first time she had acknowledged his scars in any way.  “How do you know that?” he finally asked her.

                Serra sighed.  “I heard the story about your bedsheets, but that doesn’t make any sense.  I’ve seen enough burnt men to know you were held down to the flame.  I’ve also heard about your brother’s cruelty.  It was easy enough to put the two together.”

                Sandor shook his head “Leave it to you to piece that together, Wild Wolf.” He told her.  “I meant what I said, though, my brother is a dangerous man.  He wasn’t in the melee because he’s not allowed to be.  He can’t stop himself from killing his opponents.  He’s a monster, and a killing machine, and you’d better stay away from him.”

                “You know I can take care of myself.” She told him and he frowned.

                “Dammit woman, can’t you just listen for once?” He blurted.

                Serra held up her hands in defeat.  “Fine, fine, I’ll keep away from him.” She told him, then lowered her voice conspiratorially.  “Did he really kill his three wives?”

                “Aye,” Sandor admitted, returning to the task of fixing his armor on.  “The first one was a hedge knight’s daughter.  She died in childbed, along with the child.  He dumped their bodies in front of the girl’s father and demanded he give him his second daughter in her place.  That one he beat to death.  The third wife was the daughter of a blacksmith.   No one knows what happened to her.”

                Serra gasped, her hand going to her mouth.  “That’s awful!” she said. “Why does he get away with such things?”

                Sandor scoffed.  “Because Lord Tywin holds his strings.  As long as he belongs to the Lannisters no one can touch him.”

                Serra’s lips tightened into a thin line, and her eyes took on a faraway look.  “He’ll get his someday.” She said absently.

                Sandor lifted his dog’s head helm and placed it on his head, lifting the visor.  “Aye” he agreed, “And if the gods exist it will be me who gives it to him.”  Outside the trumpets blared, signaling the start of the tournament. 

                Sandor moved to leave the tent but the wild wolf caught his arm.  “What now?” he growled, and she smiled at him.  Standing on her tip toes she placed a soft kiss to the unburnt side of his cheek.  “That’s for luck.” She told him and made her way out of the tent, leaving him to stand there with his hand on his cheek and a stunned look on his face.

 

 

* * *

 

                It all happened so fast.  One minute the Knight of Flowers was jousting with the Mountain, the next the Mountain had killed his horse and was trying to do the same to the Tyrell boy.  The crown gasped in horror, and Serra found herself with her hand on the hilt of her sword, ready to put a stop to it.  Before she could react Sandor brushed past her, his sword drawn.  “Leave him alone!” he cried as he stepped in front of his brother, deflecting a blow that would have killed Loras Tyrell.

                The Mountain didn’t miss a beat, swinging his sword at his brother in what was meant to be a killing blow.  Serra watched on in horror as the two brothers fought, equally matched.  She debated jumping in to help, but knew Sandor would never forgive her for that.  She was almost willing to take that chance if it meant keeping him alive.

                He had returned to his place behind the prince after he was unseated, not meeting her eyes as though he was ashamed he had not won as he said he would.  Serra wasn’t upset, he had put up a good fight, but she let him brood.  She had been gratified to see the ribbon was still secured to his sword.

                Now she looked on in fear as the same sword met his brother’s swing for swing, blow for blow.  Finally the king shouted for them to stop and Clegane immediately took a knee, his head bowed to his king.  The Mountain’s final swing buzzed right over his bent head.  It could easily have been a killing blow.

                The Mountain, robbed of his chance to kill his younger brother, stomped angrily off the field.  Sandor rose to his feet and stood dazed as young Tyrell lifted his arm in victory.  Serra smiled.  He had won anyway.  Sandor was still in shock when the Knight of Flowers handed him a crown made of white and yellow lilies.  He leaned over and whispered in Sandor’s ear, and Sandor nodded dumbly.

                He took the crown and climbed back up to the royal box, dropping the ring of flowers unceremoniously onto Serra’s head.  He leaned in close so only she could hear.  His burnt cheek twitched as he whispered “I won for you after all, Wild Wolf.”  Serra found herself blushing, and as she looked out over the crowd she realized they were all cheering and smiling.  Serra had no idea what the crown meant.  She would have to ask Sansa, who was smiling more than anyone.

                Next to Sansa sat her father, who was not smiling at all.  In fact, he was scowling in displeasure.  Serra sighed, and wondered when the lecture would begin.


	10. Chapter 9: The Godswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serra gets some unwelcome news, and Sandor sees more than he bargained for in the Godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry its been so long since I updated. Real life and stuff. I'd like to thank everyone who has read and commented so far. And as always, only Serra is mine, the rest belongs to GRRM.

_The air was frigid and snow blew harshly against her feathers. Her keen eyes could make out the trees below her that made up the haunted forest, though it had been years since she had seen it. Pushing through the field of white that surrounded it she could just see three black clad men on horseback. She circled down, buoyed by the wind in her feathers, to get a closer look._

_She perched herself in a tree branch high above the heads of the men who seemed so out of place against the stark white landscape. From her new vantage point she could see that one of the men was her brother Benjen. She cocked her head and watched with interest has he made his way through the trees._

_Suddenly, the air around her became colder, biting through the protection her thick feathers provided. She could feel a familiar dread in the air, and the horses below her began to shy and buck. She took to the skies again and looked out over the landscape. From a distance she saw what she had most feared: darkening skies and an oncoming horde of undead._

_Below her the men struggled to get hold of their horses, terror written plainly on their faces as they heard the sound of the enemies they couldn't yet see. Benjen had said that the white walkers were a myth; he was about to learn better._

_She dove toward the men, trying to warn them, trying to send them running in the opposite direction. Benjen looked up and for a moment their eyes met. Time seemed to stand still, and then the horses screamed and the men shouted and it was all over before it even started._

* * *

 

Serra woke roughly, sweat soaking through her night shift, and jumped out of the bed. She dressed quickly, barely taking time to tie back her wild hair, and hurried to the hand's chambers. She came upon Ned as he was eating his breakfast, and walked without preamble into the room. Ned looked up and her and smiled. As he took in her disheveled appearance and obvious distress the smile fell from his face.

"Has something happened, sister?" he asked nervously.

"Benjen is dead." She said. "I saw it. He was overtaken by wights."

Ned wiped his chin with a napkin and stood. "What do you mean you saw?" he asked her.

"I was there, just now, as my body slept. I was a hawk flying above and saw it all."

"It was just a dream, Serra." Ned told her. He smiled indulgently, like a parent smiles at a small child. Serra wanted to slap him.

"It was no dream, Ned." She said firmly. "Our brother is dead, and the walkers are farther south than I have ever seen them. They're getting closer, and we sit here doing nothing."

Ned ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Even if it were so, what would you have me do?"

Serra slammed her hands down on the table. "You're the thrice damned hand of the king, Ned. Send men north, send as many as you can!"

"It's not that simple, " he replied. "Men don't volunteer to go to the wall, I can only send criminals who warrant it."

"You have an army! Send troops!"

"The king would never allow that, even if I were of a mind to ask him." Ned told her. "Serra, we've talked about this before."

Serra had tears in her eyes. "That was before they killed our brother!"

Ned put his hand on her shoulder. "I'll send a raven to Castle Black. I'll inquire about Benjen and we'll put the matter to rest."

Serra was beyond livid. "Winter is coming! You send your ravens, brother, and sit here in your comfortable rooms while our ancient enemy comes further south. Jon will be next, and then Caitlynn and the boys. Will you send men when Winterfell is over run? Or will you still think I'm dreaming? You've believed my visions before, why can't you believe this one?"

"Even if it's true, there is nothing to be done about it now." He told her, pacing to the window and looking out over the courtyard below. "I do have something I need to discuss, however. Something more pressing."

"What could be more pressing than this?" she asked.

"My wife has taken Tyrion Lannister hostage." He said simply, though there was nothing simple about such a statement.

"What? Why would she do a thing like that?"

Ned turned back to face her. "There is strong evidence that he was the one who tried to kill Bran." He told her.

"That's ridiculous. Tyrion was the only one of his family who even cared. Why would he do such a thing? He had no cause."

"It was his dagger that nearly killed Bran in his bed!" Ned reasoned.

"That doesn't mean it wasn't planted." She replied. "Ned, you know the Lannisters won't let this stand. There will be consequences."

Ned ran his hand over his face. "I know. " he stated. "As if things weren't bad enough without this."

For the first time since entering the room Serra noticed how tired her brother looked, how aged. "Has something else happened?" she asked him, feeling almost sorry for her anger earlier.

"Nothing I can discuss. Not right now." He told her, attempting another small smile that fell flat. "Tell me about you and Clegane."

Serra rolled her eyes. She had known this was coming eventually, but this hardly seemed like the time to discuss it. It was obvious he was trying to distract her. "S'nothing to tell." She said. "We're friends."

"Friends?" Ned chuckled. "The whole kingdom is talking about what happened at the tournament."

"Nothing happened at the tournament." She sighed. "I gave him a silly ribbon, he put some silly flowers on my head, we both thought it was funny."

"So that was it then? Just a jape?" Ned looked skeptical.

"Of course it was just a jape." She told him. "Why are we even talking about this now?"

Ned took her hand in his own. "Because I worry about you, and I don't want to see you hurt. And because I would have you guard your reputation."

Serra smirked. "My reputation is the least of our problems."

* * *

 

Sandor Clegane was a hard man. He had lived a life full of battle and bloodshed, even before he was a soldier. He survived his life by not giving a fuck about anyone or anything, including himself. It had worked for him well for 28 years, and he had counted on it lasting the rest of his lifetime. The last thing he ever expected was for some highborn wildling to come along and addle his thoughts.

Yet addled was the only term for what was happening in his mind right now. He was wandering the red keep, wineskin in hand, with nothing but the Wild Wolf on his mind. It made him angry, how she had wheedled her way into his thoughts. He had not seen her since the tournament, but he'd faced a dressing down over their "inappropriate behavior" from the king.

As he made his way down the serpentine he caught sight of her walking towards the drawbridge, wierwood staff strapped to her back. No doubt she was heading for the Godswood. He tried to walk the other way, to put her out of his mind, but found with frustration that his feet were carrying him in her direction. _Shit_.

He knew that she came to the Godswood daily to pray, sometimes twice a day. Since she called herself a priestess of the Old Gods, it was not surprising. He had never had any use for prayer, himself, nor any use for gods. But he suddenly found his curiosity overwhelming his earlier musings. He stalked her through the trees, following but not too closely, until she settled herself in front of the heart tree.

He had heard her lament that there were no weirwoods in the south, and indeed the heart tree of this Godswood was naught but an ancient oak. He wondered if it really made a difference. A tree was a tree in his opinion.

She was knelt down sitting on her feet, eyes closed and head bowed. He thought she must be at prayer already, weirwood or no, but then she stood and pulled the weirwood staff from off her back. She held it high above her head for a moment, tip pointed down toward the ground. Then suddenly she thrust in into the earth beneath the heart tree.

Nothing happened at first, then a white light enveloped the staff. It began to change, to grow. As it got taller, branches sprouted from the top, blood red leaves springing up along them. It continued to grow until the small tree stood two feet above her head. In its trunk he could just make out a carved face, red sap dripping like blood from its eyes.

The Hound took a step back, not believing his eyes. He had seen many things in his life, but never anything like that. Magic had always made him nervous, but this was different. This was more than magic. This was unearthly. He thought he had gotten to know Serra Stark during their long trip together, but now he found himself wondering just who she really was.

She knelt down again in front of the tree and was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly "You can come out, Hound. I know you're there." He wiped a hand in front of his face and cursed his own foolishness. She was a battle hardened warrior, and apparently more than that. Why had he thought he could sneak up on her?

He stepped out of the trees and stood beside her, saying nothing. "Sit, if you're so curious." she told him, without looking up. He did as she bid and took a long gulp from the wineskin. He offered to her but she declined. "Not while I'm at prayer."

He watched her silently then, with her head bowed and eyes closed. Her lips moved but the words she whispered were apparently for her gods' hears alone. Then she was quiet and seemed to be listening. She looked sad suddenly, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. Without realizing he was doing it he reached out and wiped the tear away.

She opened her eyes then and looked at him. Her eyes had turned a luminescent shade of grey, brighter than he had ever seen, and though she faced him she seemed to be seeing something much farther away. Then her eyes dimmed and she was just Serra again, just the Wild Wolf of the North, and nothing more. Her eyes focused on his face, and she smiled softly.

"How long have you been stalking me?" she asked with a smirk.

"I wasn't stalking you woman." He huffed. "I just wondered what you were up to."

"Aye,so that's why you were skulking about in the trees like a bandit." she scolded him lightly. "A bloody noisy bandit at that. If you wanted to know what I was doing, you could have just asked."

"I never would have believed this." he said, motioning toward the newly sprouted weirwood tree. As he said it she put her hand around the trunk of the tree and the white light returned. The leaves and limbs began to recede, and the tree shrank in on itself until it was once again a simple white staff.

Serra handed the staff to Sandor for his inspection, and he took it warily. "A gift from the Old Gods." She told him. "So that they could hear my prayers wherever I go, and so that I might hear them in return."

"And do you hear them Wolf?" Sandor asked her curiously.

"I do, though I don't always like what they have to say." She closed her eyes and wiped another stray tear from her face.

"What did they tell you today to make you so sad?" he asked softly.

"They reminded me that some destinies are set in stone, and anything I do to change them will be futile." She opened her eyes again and reached out for the wineskin.

"Seven Hells, Wild Wolf, "he said, handing her the skin, "You don't need buggering gods to know that."

She drank from the skin and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She was quiet, and her eyes began to scan over his face, as though searching for something. She stared in silence for a long moment until her gaze became too much. "What?" he growled. "Just noticing this ugly mug for the first time?" And he realized this was the heart of his unease. This is why she invaded his thoughts. He couldn't remember a single time since he had been burned that a person looked upon his scars for the first time without flinching. But she never had. From the first moment they met, she had looked right into his eyes, and right past the horror that was his face. As though she didn't see it. As though it didn't matter. As though he was more than the ruined shell of a man he had become.

As though reading his thoughts she scooted closer to him and reached out to him. Her hand was steady but her eyes were questioning, as though silently asking for permission. Then she placed her hand upon his scarred cheek. He tried to wrench himself away but she caught his wrist with her other hand and stilled him. He found he had not the strength or the will to fight her. She continued to study him, eyes roaming over him as her fingers traced the hard ridges of his scars.

"You were so brave." she said softly. "Stronger than your tender years. A child forged in fire, a warrior born. But there is so much rage there, so much hatred, so much pain. Would that I could lighten your heart." He began to feel uneasy, as though she were looking into his soul. He snatched her hand away and pulled back. Serra dropped her hand to her side. "Apologies." she whispered, a light blush rising to her cheeks. Sandor had never seen her like this, open and vulnerable. He wondered what secrets she kept locked in her own heart, and wished that he could see in to her as easily.

"I shouldn't be here." he told her. "The king tore into me about the tournament. He says our relationship is 'inappropriate.'"

"Bugger the king." she laughed. "Ned told me something similar this morning. He said I had to guard my reputation." she scoffed at this. "If he only knew! Anyway, I will decide who I befriend, not my brother and not some kneeler king."

The hound regarded her through steely grey eyes. "is that what we are, Wolf? Friends?"

"I hope so. " she teased. "Anyone else would have found a dagger in their belly, trying to sneak up on me in the trees."

"He laughed darkly and took the wineskin from her. "You could try." he countered.

She smiled at his jape, but then her face turned serious. "I do hope we are friends, Sandor Clegane. I will sorely need a friend in the days to come. This burden that has come to me, its too heavy to carry on my own."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't why you would want the help of a scarred old dog like me. You have your family, you don't need me."

"You have a role to play in this, Hound, weather you will it or no. I have seen you in my dreams. The Gods speak your name to me on the wind. I believe that when the time comes, it will be you who stands by my side in the face of darkness." Sandor reeled at her words. What kind of madness was this? She had seen him In her dreams? The Wild Wolf was crazed, surely. Yet he looked into her eyes and saw no madness there, only sadness and longing.

"Speak plainly." he rasped suddenly. "What burden do you carry. What do your buggering gods want from you?"

She smiled. "I will tell you." she said. "One day I will tell you everything. But not today." with that she stood, brushing the dirt and leaves from her knees. She picked up the weirwood staff and slid back across her shoulders. She reached out her hand and helped him to stand as well. Her face was now full of mirth, as though the previous conversation had never happened. "Is there a decent tavern around here? I have a thirst for ale and rowdy company. Or are you afraid your king might disapprove."

Sandor smiled wickedly. "Piss on that, I know just the place." he told her. "Might be I'll even get myself a whore." They were walking toward the exit of the Godswood, and he laughed when she punched him playfully in the arm. "What?" he said innocently. "I'll share if you like."

Serra growled in mock indignity. "I'll pass."

 _Friends_. He'd never had a friend before. Mayhap it wouldn't be so bad.


	11. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie Lannister faces Ned in the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I apologize for the long time between updates. I hope people are still enjoying this story, and I would love to hear what you think.

“Keep your shoulder up, Tommen, you’re opening yourself up on the left!”  To prove the point, Serra swung her wooden training sword to the left, tapping the young prince on the shoulder.  Tommen grinned and straitened his stance, swinging his sword and meeting Serra’s in the air.  The blows were soft, Serra holding back in deference to the youth, but still expertly executed.

               Serra was pleased with the boy’s progress.  She had decided a few weeks ago that if she was to guard the royal children, she would put the time to good use.  Tommen was a prince, and wanted to be a knight someday like his Uncle Jamie, but so far his training had been sorely lacking.  She knew if something wasn’t done he would be as useless with a sword as his older brother, so she had taken it upon herself to train him properly.

               Cercie had resisted at first, fearing for his safety, but the king had thought it a fine idea and given them his blessing. When Cercie had seen just how much the boy wanted to learn she had relented, albeit reluctantly. 

               The king had been less enthusiastic about Serra’s plan to train Myrcella in the use of a dagger, but she had insisted that it was imperative that the girl have some means of protecting herself.  To Serra’s surprise it had been Cercie who came around first to this idea.  She said she had begged her father to let her learn some skill at arms, but he had refused because she was a lady.  She didn’t want the same for her daughter, and liked the idea of Myrcella not being at the mercy of the men around her.  The king had acquiesced eventually, and so now Serra took time each day to train the children.

               The first thing Tommen had wanted to learn was how to flourish his sword, and Serra had indulged him even though she thought such displays were silly and useless.  It made him happy, however, and she saw no harm in it.  He did so now with a wide grin on his face, circling around Serra like a wolf stalking its prey.  She knew the attack was coming but she held back, waiting to see what he would do.

               Suddenly he lunged toward her, swinging his sword quickly in a flurry of strikes.  Serra met each strike with a block, but was impressed with the strength behind each blow.  He changed his attack periodically in response to her defense, and Serra laughed with delight when one of his blows got past her and the wooden sword struck her in the thigh.

               Tommen threw his hands in the air and shouted in exultation.  Serra drew him into a rough embrace.  “Well done, little cub.” She told him.  “You’re getting better every day.  Now go practice with the training dummies so I can spend some time with your sister.”

               Tommen trundled off, still excited about his “win.”  Serra motioned to Myrcella, who had been watching patiently from the side as her brother trained.  She had been apprehensive at first about learning to use the dagger, but had become quite enthusiastic as her skill improved.  She was now showing interest in learning to use a bow, and Serra was trying to think of a way to bring this up to her parents.

               Unlike Tommen, Myrcella used a real steel dagger that Serra had gifted her when she started training.  She had also given her a wrist scabbard, and insisted the girl wear the weapon at all times.  Myrcella now drew the dagger and assumed her stance, readying herself for her lesson. She began practicing her paces while Serra looked on with approval.  Serra’s concentration was interrupted when she heard a rough voice behind her.

“You’ll make warriors of them yet, Wild Wolf.” The Hound told her.  Myrcella giggled and let her paces lapse.  Serra turned around with mock disapproval.

“Not if you keep disturbing them.” She said.  “Besides, I doubt their mother will let me go that far.”

“The king should be pleased with the progress they’ve made.  He’ll want you teach the boy to use a war hammer next.”

Serra scoffed.  “If he wants Tommen to use a war hammer he’ll have to train him himself.  I don’t know the first thing about that particular weapon.”

The Hound laughed.  “A weapon the great Serra Stark can’t use.  Don’t let that get around, the word around the training yard is that you’re invincible.”

Serra walked to face her friend, the training yard fence a barrier between them.  She gave him a sly smile.  “Perhaps I am.”  She said.  “Not that you would know.  You’ve yet to spar with me.”

Sandor frowned.  “You train too bloody early.  I don’t like to swing a sword before the sun rises.”

Serra shoved his shoulder playfully.  “Maybe if you drank a little less wine you could rise at a decent hour.”

Sandor crossed his arms across his chest.  “I think I’ll keep drinking my wine.  If you want to train with me you can bloody well come to the yard when I’m there.”

“Impossible wretch.” Serra huffed.  Behind her Myrcella giggled again.  “Pay attention to your practice!” Serra called over her shoulder, but hid the smile playing across her lips.

Serra and Sandor continued to chat as the children trained, but stopped to stare as several gold cloaks ran past them in a hurry.  They exchanged worried glances before Sandor called out for one of the soldiers to stop.  “What’s happening?” he asked.

The man’s face wrinkled in worry as he looked from the Hound to Serra.  “Trouble with the Hand, m’lord.” He said.  “The Kingslayer’s attacked him in the street!”

Sandor’s head snapped to attention as Serra vaulted over the fence.  “Why would the Kingslayer attack your brother?” he asked.

Serra growled under her breath.  “Probably because my damn goodsister took Tyrion Lannister hostage.”

“She did what?” he sputtered, but Serra didn’t answer him.

“Where are they?” she asked the gold cloak?

The soldier looked apprehensively in the direction the others had gone.  “The Street of Silk.” He said finally, “In front of Lord Baelish’s brothel.”

“Take me.” She said, and as an afterthought called back to Sandor, “Will you stay with the children?”  She didn’t give him a chance to answer as she ran behind the gold cloak, leaving a confused and annoyed Sandor to pick up the training.

* * *

 

Serra ran as quickly as she could, following the city guard to the site of the altercation.  She arrived in time to see her brother in a heated battle with Ser Jamie, surrounded by Lannister men.  Ned was a good swordsman, but he was no match for Jamie Lannister, and the strain of the battle was beginning to show on his face.  It was clear the Kingslayer had the upper hand, and Serra struggled to push her way through the crowd to reach the battle before her brother was killed.

The red cloaks fought to bar her way but backed up as she drew her sword.  Jamie had Ned backed against the line of red cloaks, and as Serra rushed to her brother’s aid one of the nearest soldiers swung his sword across Ned’s leg, dropping him to the ground.

“No!” Jamie shouted, and she was relieved to see that he halted his attack.  Serra reached her brother’s side, kneeling beside him to survey the damage.  It was then that she noticed the bodies strewn around her, bodies of loyal Stark men.  She looked around her in disbelief, shock turning to grief when she took in the sight of Jory Cassel, his eyes open and unseeing. 

Greif quickly turned to anger, and she stood again, leveling her sword at the Kingslayer.  “What have you done?” she growled.  Around her a dozen Lannister men pointed their swords at them but she took no notice.

Jamie lowered his own sword and held up his hands in a placating gesture.  “My quarrel is not with you, Ice Wolf.” He told her.  “But I will have my brother returned.”  As the gold cloaks circled around them struggling to gain control of the situation, Jamie gestured for his men to lower their arms.  Serra, however, kept hers perfectly still.  When she spoke her voice was like iron and pushed out through her clenched teeth.

“These were good men.” She told him.  “I should kill you for what you’ve done here.”  Jamie gestured around them, bringing her attention to soldiers ready to attack and defend if she tried anything.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” He told her, but she saw a flash of uncertainty in his eyes.  He knew her reputation, and he wasn’t sure he could beat her.

“Coward!” she spat.  “Why are you hiding behind your father’s men?  Face me!”  she craved justice for Jory and the others, for the injury done to her brother, for the insult to her family.  But the Kingslayer shook his head and sheathed his sword.

“As I said, Lady Serra, my quarrel is not with you.”  With that he turned and mounted his horse, leading his men away down the street.  The gold cloaks gathered to help the Hand to his feet, and gather up the bodies of the fallen.

Every fiber in Serra’s being yelled at her to follow the disgraced Knight.  She felt betrayed.  She had liked Ser Jamie, even defended him, but now she wanted nothing more than to carve away his smug face.  With a huff of frustration and anger she sheathed her own sword and turned toward her brother.

“What happened, Ned?” she asked him.  He was leaning heavily on two gold cloaks who were leading him toward a wagon.  His face was pale and whether it was from pain, blood loss, or grief she couldn’t say.  Likely all three.

“They ambushed us.” He told her. “Ser Jamie was angry that his brother had been taken, and this is how he retaliated.”  Serra helped her brother into the wagon, gently lifting his injured leg to rest in front of him.

“I knew this would lead to trouble.” She said sadly, as she watched the body of Jory Cassel be loaded into the back.  Her mind went back to the day she watched Jory loading Lady’s body into a similar wagon, and she wondered how much more death would find them here in this horrible place.

“As did I.” Ned agreed, his voice weak.  “But I never thought it would be this bad.”  One of the gold cloaks climbed into the wagon beside him and took the reins.  With a cluck the wagon began moving slowly toward the keep, and Serra watched silently as it made its way down the street.  Then she turned and surveyed the blood pooled on the ground, blood of good honest northern men, and wiped a tear from her eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this without a beta, so if anyone would like to volunteer please let me know!


End file.
